Belford Regis

BELFORD REGIS;

OE,

SKETCHES OE A COUNTRY TOWN.

BY

MARY RUSSELL MITEORD,

AUTHORESS OP

“ RIENZV' « OUR VILLAGE.” &c.

LONDON :

RICIIAllD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET

HELL it BRAUfUTE, EDINBURGH:

GUMMING AND FERGUSON, DUBLIN.

TO

Ills GRACE

THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIBE,

In token of ainccrc gratitude for many kindnesses
received at liis hands, and of unfeigned admiration
for liis refined taste, his active benevolence, and his
wide-reaching sympathy, — that sympathy which at
all seasons, and more especially in times like the
present, forms the best and safest link between the
different classes of society, —

THESE HOMELY SKETCHES

arc most respectfully inscribed by

THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

In an Article on the last Volume of “ Our Village,” the
courteous critic recommended, since I had taken leave of
rural life, that I should engage lodgings in the next
country town, and commence a scries of sketches of the
inhabitants ; a class of the community which, whilst it
forms so large a portion of our population, occupies so
small a space in our literature, and amongst wdiom, more
perliaps than amongst any other order of Englisli society,
may be traced the peculiarities, the prejudices, and the
excellences of the national character.

Upon this hint I wrote and the present work would
have been called simply “ Our Market Town,” had not an
ingenious contemporary, by forestalling my intended title,
compelled me to give to my airy nothings, a local habi-
tation and a name.”* It would not quite do to have two
“ Simon Pures ” in the field, each asserting his identity
and jostling for precedence ; although I am so far from
accusing IMr. Peregrine Reed pen (as the Frenchman did
tlic ancients) of liaving stolen my best thoughts, that I
am firmly of opinion that were twenty writers to sit down
at once to compose a book upon this theme, there would
not be the sliglitest danger of their interfering with each
other. Every separate work would bear the stamp of the
Author’s mind, of his peculiar train of thought, and liabits
of observation. Tlie subject is as inexliaustible as nature
herself.

* “ Our Town ; or, Hough Sketches of Ch.nr.icter, Manners, &c. Hy Peregrine
Ueedpen.” 2 voJs. London, 18:34.

PREFACE.

One favour, the necessity of which has been pressed
upon me by painful experience, I have to entreat most
earnestly at the hands of my readers, — a favour the very
reverse of that whicli story-tellers by profession arc wont
to implore ! It is that they will da me the justice not to
believe one word of these sketclics from beginning to end.
General truth of delineation 1 liope there is ; but of indi-
vidual portrait painting, I most seriously assert that
none has been intended, and none, I firmly trust, can be
found. From this declaration I except of course the notes
which consist professedly of illustrative anecdotes, and
the paper on the Greek plays, which contains a feeble
attempt to perpetuate one of the happiest recollections of
my youth. Belford itself, too, may perhaps be identified ;
for I do not deny having occasionally stolen some touches
of local scenery from the beautiful town that comes
so frequently before my eyes. But the inhabitants of
Belford, the Stephen Lanes, the Peter Jenkinses, and
the King Harwoods, exist only in these pages; and
if there should be any persons who, after this protest,
should obstinately persist in mistaking for fact that
which the Author herself declares to be fiction, I can
only compare them to the sagacious gentleman men-
tioned in “ The Spectatovy^ who upon reading over “ The
Whole Duty of Man,” wrote the names of different people
in the village where he lived at the side of every sin
mentioned by the author, and with half a-dozen strokes of
his pen turned the whole of that devout and pious treatise
into a libel.

Be more merciful to these slight volumes, gentle reader,
and farewell !

Threi Mil* Cross,

Feb. 25th, 1835.

CONTENTS.

The Town

Stephen Lane, the Butcher . - -

William and Hannah . - .

The ("urate of St. Nichoi.a.s
King Harwood _ _ - -

The Carpenter’s Daughter - - -

Suppers and Balls - . - -

'PnE Old Kmigre - - - • *

The Tamuourine - - - -

Mrs. Hollis, the Fruiterer - - -

Belles of the Ball Room - ‘ -

The Greek Plays _ - - -

Peter Jenkins, the Poulterer . - ,

J’liE Sailor’s Wedding - - - .

Country FiXcuusioNs - - - - -

The Young Sculptor _ _ - -

Belles of the Ball Room, No. II. — IVIatcii-making

Mrs. Tomkins, the Cheesemonger _ - -

The Young Market Woman - - - -

Hester

Flirtation Extraordinary' - - - -

Belles of the Bai.l Room, No. III. — The Silver Arrow'
The Young Painter « - - - -

The Surgeon’s Courtship - - - -

Thf. Irish Haymaker - - - -

Mark Bridgman . _ _ - -

Rosamond : A Story' of the Plague
Old David Dykes - - - - -

The Dissenting Minister . - - -

Bedford Races - - - - -

The Absent Member - - - - -

Page

1

- 5

- 17

- 27

- .it)

- 58

- G8

- 74

- 94

- lOS

- 120

- 130

- 141

- 152

- 1G7

- 182

- 207

- 217

- 227
-• 238

- 276

- 2S5

- 315

- 334
’ 347

- 3G1

- 371

- 386

- 392

- 405

- 427

BELFORD REGIS,

THE TOWN.

About three miles to the north of our village (if my readers
may be supposed to have heard of such a place) stands the
good town of lielford Regis. The approach to it, straight as
a dart, runs along a wide and populous turnpike-road (for as
yet railways are not), all alive with carts and coaches, waggons
and phaetons, horse people and foot people, sweeping rapidly
or creeping lazily up and down the gentle undulations with
which the surface of the country is varied ; and the borders,
checkered by patches of common, rich with hedge-row timber,
and sprinkled with cottages, and, 1 grieve to say, with that
cottage pest, the beer-houses, — and here and there enlivened
by dwellings of more pretension and gentility — become more
thickly inhabited as we draw nearer to the metropolis of the
county : to say nothing of the three cottages all in a row, with
two small houses detached, which a board affixed to one of
them infbrms the passers-by is ^ Tw’o mile Cross or of those
opposite neighbours the wheelwrights and the blacksmiths,
about half-a-mile farther ; or the little farm close to the pound;
or the series of buildings called the Long Row, terminating at
the end next the road with an old-fashioned and most pictu-
resque public-house, with pointed roofs, and benches at the
door, and round the large elm before it, — benches which are
generally filled by thirsty wayfarers, and waggoners watering
their horses and partaking a more generous liquor themselves.

Leaving these objects undescribed, no sooner do we get
within a mile of the town, than our approach is indicated by
successive market-gardens on either side, crowned, as we as-
cend the long hill on which the turnpike-gate stands, by aa

B

extensive nursery-ground, gay with long beds of flowers, with
trellised walks covered with creepers, with whole acres of
flowering shrubs, and ranges of green-houses, the glass glit-
tering in the southern sun. Then the turnpike-gate with its
civil keeper — then another public-house — then the clear bright
pond on the top of the hill, and then the rows of small tene-
ments, with here and there a more ambitious single cottage
standing in its own pretty garden, which forms the usual gra-
dation from the country to the town.

About this point, where one road, skirting the great pond
and edged by small houses, diverges from the great southern
entrance, and where two streets meeting or parting lead by
separate ways down the steep hill to the centre of the town,
stands a handsome mansion, surrounded by orchards and
pleasure-grounds ; across which is perhaps to be seen the very
best view of Belford, with its long ranges of modern buildings
in the outskirts, mingled with picturesque old streets ; the ve-
nerable towers of St. Stephen’s and St. Nicholas’ ; the light and
tapering spire of St. John’s; the huge monastic ruins of the
abbey ; the massive walls of the county gaol ; the great river
winding along like a thread of silver ; trees and gardens ming-
ling amongst all ; and the whole landscape enriched and light-
ened by the dropping elms of the foreground, adding an illusive
beauty to the picture, by breaking the too formal outline, and
veiling just exactly those parts which most require concealment.

Nobody can look at Belford from tliis point without feeling
that it is a very English and very charming scene ; and the
impression does not diminish on farther acquaintance. We
read at once the history of the place: that it is art ancient
borough town, which has recently been extended to nearly
double its former size ; so that it unites, in no common degree,
the old romantic irregular structures in which our ancestors
delighted, with the handsome and uniform buildings which are
the fashion now-a-days. I suppose that people are right in
their taste, and that the modern houses are pleasantest to live
in ; but, beyond all question, those antique streets are the
prettiest to look at. The occasional blending, too, is good.
Witness the striking piece of street scenery, which was once
accidentally forced upon my attention as I took shelter from a
shower of rain in a shop, about ten doors up the right-hand
aide of Eriar-street : the old vicarage house of St. Nicholas,

THK TOWN.

3

embowered in evergreens ; the lofty town-ball, and the hand-
some modern bouse of my friend Mr. Beauchamp ; the fine
church-tower of St. Nicholas ; the picturesque piazza under-
neath ; the jutting corner of F liar-street ; the old irregular
shops in the market-place, and the trees of the Forbury just
pee[)ing between, with all their varieties of light and shadow !
It is a scene fit for that matchless painter of towns, Mr. Jones.
1 wAt to the door to see if the shower were over, was caught
by its beauty, and stood looking at it in the sunshine long after
the rain had ceased.

Then, again, for a piece of antiquity, what can be more
picturesque than the high solitary bay-window^ in that old
house in Mill-lane, garlanded with grapes, and hanging over
the water, as if to admire its own beauty in that clear mirror ?
That projecting window is a picture in itself.

Or, for a modern scene, what can surpass the High Bridge
on a sun-shiny day ? The bright river, crowded with barges
and small craft ; the streets, and wharfs, and quays, all alive
with the busy and stirring population of the country and the
town; — a combination of light and motion. In looking at
a good view of the High Bridge at noon, you should seem to
hear the bustle. I have never seen a more cheerful subject.

Cheerfulness is, perhaps, the word that best describes the
impression conveyed by the more frequented streets of Bel-
ford. It is not a manufacturing town, and its trade is solely
that dependent on its own considerable population, and the
demands of a thickly inhabited neighbourhood ; so that, ex-
cept in the very centre of that trade, the streets where the
principal shops arc congregated, or on certain public occasions,
such as elections, fairs, and markets, the stir hardly amounts
to bustle. Neither is it a professed place of gaiety, like Chel-
tenham or Brighton ; where London people go to find or make
a smaller London out of town. It is neither more nor less
than an honest English borough, fifty good miles from the
deep, deep sea,’' and happily free from the slightest suspicion
of any spa, chalybeate or saline. We have, it is true, ‘‘ the
Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned,” passing through the
walls, and the mighty Thames for a near neighbour — water
in plenty, but luckily all fresh ! They who sympathise in
my dislike of the vulgar finery, the dull dissipation, of a
watering-place, will feel all the felicity of this exemption.

THE TOWN,

Clean, airy, orderly, and affluent ; well paved, well lighted,
well watched ; abounding in wide and spacious streets, filled
with excellent shops and handsome houses ; — such is the out-
ward appearance, the bodily form, of our market- town. For
the vital spirit, the life-blood that glows and circulates through
the dead mass of mortar and masonry, — in other words, for
the inhabitants, — I must refer my courteous reader to the
following pages. If they do not appear to at least equal ad-
vantage, it will be the fault of the chronicler, and not of the
subject ; and one cause, one singular cause, which may make
the chronicler somewhat deficient as a painter of modern man-
ners, may be traced to the fact of her having known the place,
not too well, but too long.

It is now about forty years ago, since I, a damsel, scarcely
so high as the table on which I am writing, and somewhere
about four years old, first became an inhabitant of Belford ;
and really 1 remember a great deal not worth remembering
concerning the place, especially our own garden, and a certain
dell on the Bristol road to which 1 used to resort for prim-
roses. Then we went away ; and my next recollections date
some ten years afterwards, when my father again resided in
the outskirts of the town during the time that he was building
in the neighbourhood, and I used to pass my holidays there,
and loved the place as a school-girl does love her home. And
although we have kept up a visiting acquaintance, Belford
and I, ever since, and I have watched its improvements of
every kind with sincere interest and pleasure, — especially that
most striking and yet most gradual change which has taken
place amongst the great tradesmen, now so universally intelli-
gent and cultivated, — yet these recollections of thirty years
back, my personal experience of the far narrower and more
limited society of the gentry of the place — the old ladies and
their tea visits, the gentlemen and their whist club, and the
merry Christmas parties, with their round games and their
social suppers, their mirth and their jests ; — recollections such
as these, with the dear familiar faces and the pleasant asso-
ciations of my girlish days, will prevail, do what I can, over
the riper but less vivid impressions of a maturer age, and the
more refined but less picturesque state of manners of the pre-
sent race of inhabitants.

So far it seemed necessary to premise, lest these general

STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCH BH*

5

sketches of country town society (for of individual portraiture
I again assert my innocence) should exhibit Belford as a
quarter of a century beliind in the grand march of civilisation :
and I hereby certify, that whatever want of modern elegance
or of modish luxury may be observed in these delineations, is
to be ascribed, not to any such deficiency in the genteel circles
of that famous town,” but to the peculiar tastes and old-
fashioned predilections of the writer.

; STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER,

The greatest man in these parts (I use the word in the sense
of Louis-le-Gros, not Louis-le-(Jrand), the greatest man here-
abouts, by at least a stone, is our worthy neighbour Stephen
Lane, the grazier, — ex-butcher of Belford. Nothing so big
hath been seen since Lambert the gaoler, or the Durham ox.

When he walks he overfills the pavement, and is more diffi-
cult to pass than a link of full-dressed misses, or a chain of
becloaked dandies. Indeed, a malicious attorney, in drawing
up a paving bill for the ancient lx)rough of Belford Regis,
once inserted a clause confining Mr. Lane to the middle of the
road, together with waggons, vans, stage-coaches, and other
heavy articles. Chairs crack under him, — sofas rock, — bol-
sters groan, — and floors tremble. He hath been stuck in a
staircase and jammed in a doorway, and has only escaped being
ejected from an omnibus by its being morally and physically
impossible that he should get in. His passing the window
has some such an effect as an eclipse, or as turning outward
the opaque side of that ingenious engine of mischief, a dark
lantern. He puts out the light, like Othello. A small wit of
our town, by calling a supervisor, who dabbles in riddles, and
cuts no inconsiderable figure in the poet’s corner of the county
newspaper, once perpetrated a conundrum on his person, which,
as relating to so eminent and well-known an individual, (for

almost every reader of the “ H shire Herald ** hath, at

some time or other, been a customer of our butcher’s,) had the
honour^of puzzling more people at the Sunday morning break-
D 3

6

STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER.

fast-table, and of engaging more general attention, than had
ever before happened to that respectable journal, A very hor-
rible murder, (and there was that week one of the very first
water,) two shipwrecks, an enlH^ement, and an execution, were
all passed over as trifles compared with the interest excited by
this literary squib and cracker. A trifling quirk it was to
keep Mr. Stacy, the surveyor, a rival bard, fuming over his
coffee until the said coffee grew cold ; or to hold Miss Anna
Maria Watkins, the mantua-maker, in pleasant though painful
efforts at divination until the bell rang for church, and she had
hardly time to undo her curl-papers and arrange her ringlets ;
a flimsy quirk it was of a surety, an inconsiderable quiddity !

Yet since the courteous readers of the H shire Herald”

were amused with pondering over it, so perchance may be the
no less courteous and far more courtly readers of these slight
sketches. I insert it, therefore, for their edification, together
with the answer, which was not published in the Herald ”

until the H shire public had remained an entire week in

suspense: — Query — Why is Mr. Stephen Lane like Rem-
brandt Answer — Because he is famous for the breadth

of his shadow.”

The length of his shadow, although by no means in propor-
tion to the width, — for that would have recalled the days
when giants walked the land, and Jack, the famous Jack, who
borrowed his surname from his occupation, slew them, — was
yet of pretty fair dimensions. He stood six feet two inches
without his shoes, and would have been accounted an exceed-
ingly tall man if his intolerable fatness had not swallowed up
all minor distinctions. That magnificent heau ideal of a
human mountain, “ the fat woman of Brentford,” for whom
Sir John FalstafF passed not only undetected, but unsus-
pected, never crossed my mind's eye but as the feminine of
Mr. Stephen Lane. Tailors, although he was a liberal and
punctual paymaster, dreaded liis custom. They could not,
charge how they might, contrive to extract any profit from his
huge rotundity.” It was not only the quantity of material
that he took, and yet that cloth universally called broad was
not broad enough for him, — it was not only the stuff, but the
work— -the sewing, stitching, plaiting, and button-holing
without end. The very shears grew weary of their labours,
Two^fashionable suits might have been constructed in the time

STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER.

7

and from the materials consumed in the fabrication of one for
Mr. Stephen Lane, Two, did I say ? Ay, three or four,
with a sufficient allowance of cabbage, — a perquisite never to
be extracted from his coats or waistcoats — no, not enough to
cover a penwiper. Let the cutter cut his cloth ever so largely,
it was always found to be too little. All their measures put
together would not go round him ; and as to guessing at his
proportions by the eye, a tailor might as well attempt to cal-
culate the dimensions of a seventy-four-gun ship, — as soon
try to fit a three-decker. Gloves and stockings were made for
his especial use. Extras and double extras failed utterly in
his case, as the dapper shopman espied at the first glance of
his huge paAv, a fist which might have felled an ox, and some-
what resembled the dead ox-flesh, commonly called beef, in
texture and colour.

To say the truth, his face was pretty much of the same
complexion — and yet it was no uncomely visage either; on
the contrary, it was a bold, bluff, massive, English counte-
nance, such as Holbein would have liked to paint, in which
great manliness and determination were blended with much
good-humour, and a little humour of another kind ; so that
even when the features were in seeming repose, you could
foresee how the face would look when a broad smile, and a
sly wink, and a knowing nod, and a demure smoothing down
of his straight ’shining hair on his broad forehead gave his
wonted cast of drollery to the blunt but merry tradesman, to
whom might have been fitly applied the Chinese compliment,
“ Prosperity is painted on your countenance.''

Stephen Lane, however, had not always been so prosperous,
or so famous for the breadth of his sliadow. Originally a
foundling in the streets of Helford, he owed his very name,
like the Richard Monday ” of one of Crabbe's finest de-
lineations, to the accident of his having been picked up, when
apparently about a week old, in a by-lane, close to St. Stephen's
churchyard, and baptized by order of the vestry after the
scene of his discovery. Idke the hero of the poet, he also was
sent to the parish workhouse ; but, as unlike to Richard
Monday in character as in destiny, he won, by a real or
fancied resemblance to a baby whom she had recently lost, the
affection of the matron, and was by her care shielded, not

B 4

STEPHEN LANE^ THE BUTCHER.

tjnly from the physical dangers of infancy, in such an abode,
but from the moral perils of childhood.

Kindly yet roughly reared, Stephen Lane was even as a
boy eminent for strength and hardihood, and invincible good-
humour. At ten years old he had fought with and vanquished
every lad under fifteen, not only in the workhouse proper,
but in the immediate purlieus of that respectable domicile ;
and would have got into a hundred scrapes, had he not been
shielded, in the first place, by the active protection of his
original patroness, the wife of the superintendent and master
of the establishment, whose pet he continued to be ; and, in
the second, by his own bold and decided, yet kindly and
affectionate temper. Never had a boy of ten years old more
friends than the poor foundling of St. Stephen’s workhouse.
There was hardly an inmate of that miscellaneous dwelling,
who had not profited, at some time or other, by the good-
humoured lad’s delightful alertness in obliging, his ready
services, his gaiety, his intelligence, and his resource. From
mending Master Hunt’s crutch, down to rocking the cradle of
Dame Green’s baby — from fetching the water for the general
wash, a labour which might have tried the strength of
Hercules, down to leading out for his daily walk the half-
blind, half-idiot, half-crazy David Hood, a task which would
have worn out the patience of Job, nothing came amiss to
him. All was performed with the same cheerful good-will ;
and the warm-hearted gratitude with which he received kind-
ness was even more attaching than his readiness to perform
good offices to others, I question if ever there were a happier
childhood than that of the deserted parish-boy; Set aside the
pugnaciousness which he possessed in common with other
brave and generous animals, and which his protectress, the
matron of the house, who had enjoyed in her youth the
advantage of perusing some of those novels — now, alas ! no
more — where the heroes, originally foundlings, turn out to be
lords and dukes in the last volume, used to quote in confirm-
ation of her favourite theory that he too would be found to be
nobly born, as proofs of his innate high blood ; — set aside the
foes made by his propensity to single combat, which could
hardly fail to exasperate the defeated champions, and Stephen
had not an enemy in the world.

At ten years of age, however, the love of independence.

STEPHEN LANE^ THE BUTCHER. 9

and the desire to try his fortune in the world, began to stir
ill the spirited lad ; and his kind friend and confidant, the
master’s wife, readily promised her assistance to set him forth
in search of adventures, though she was not a little scandal-
ised to find his first step in life likely to lead him into a
butcher’s shop ; he having formed an acquaintance with a
journeyman slayer of cattle in the neighbourhood, who had
interceded with his master to take him on trial as errand-boy,
with an understanding that if he showed industry and steadi-
ness, and liked the craft, he miglit, on easy terms, be accepted
as an apprentice. This prospect, which Stephen justly thought
magnificent, shocked the lady of the workhouse, who had set
her heart on his choosing a different scene of slaughter — kill-
ing men, not oxen — going forth as a soldier, turning the fate
of a battle, marrying some king's daughter or emperor’s niece,
and returning in triumph to his native town, a generalissimo
at the very least.

Her husband, however, and the parish overseers were of a
different opinion. They were much pleased with the proposal,
and were (for overseers) really liberal in their manner of
meeting it. So that a very few days saw Stephen in blue
sleeves and a blue apron — the dress which he still loves best
— parading through the streets of Belford, with a tray of
meat upon his head, and a huge mastiff called Boxer — whose
warlike name matched his warlike nature — following at» his
heels as if part and parcel of himself. A proud boy was
Stephen on that first day of his promotion ; and a still prouder,
when, perched on a pony, long the object of his open admira-
tion and his secret ambition, he carried out the orders to the
country customers. His very basket danced for joy.

Years wore away, and found the errand-boy transmuted
into the apprentice, and the apprentice ripened into the jour-
neyman, with no diminution of industry, intelligence, steadi-
ness, and good-humour. As a young man of two or three
and twenty, he was so remarkable for feats of strength and
activity, for which his tall and athletic person, not at that
period encumbered by flesh, particularly fitted him, as to be
the champion of the town and neighbourhood ; and large bets
have been laid and won on his sparring, and wrestling, and
lifting weights all but incredible. He has walked to London
and back (a distance of above sixty miles) against lime, leap-

10

STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER.

ing in his way all the turnpike-gates that he found shut, with-
out even laying his hand upon the bars. He has driven a
flock of sheep against a shepherd by profession, and has rowed
against a bargeman ; and all this without suffering these dan-
gerous accomplishments to beguile him into the slightest devi-
ation from his usual sobriety and good conduct. So that,
when at six-and- twenty he became, first, head man to Mr.
Jackson, the great butcher in the Butts ; then married Mr.
Jackson's only daughter ; then, on his father-in-law's death,
succeeded to the business and a very considerable property ;
and, finally, became one of the most substantial, respectable,
and influential inhabitants of Belford, — every one felt that he
most thoroughly deserved his good fortune : and although his
prosperity has continued to increase with his years, and those
who envied have seldom had the comfort of being called on to
condole with him on calamities of any kind, yet, such is the
power of his straightforward fair dealing, and his enlarged
liberality, that his political adversaries, on the occasion of a
contested election, or some such trial of power, are driv(‘n
back to the workhouse and St. Stephen's lane, to his obscure
and ignoble origin, (for the noble parents whom his] poor old
friend used to prognosticate have never turned up,) to find
materials for party malignity.

Prosperous, most prosperous, has Stephen Lane been through
life ) but by far the best part of his good fortune (setting
pecuniary advantages quite out of the question) was his gain-
ing the heart and hand of such a woman as Margaret Jackson.
In her youth she was splendidly beautiful — of the luxuriant
and ^gorgeous beauty in which Giorgione revelled ; and now,
in the autumn of her days, amplified, not like her husband,
but so as to suit her matronly character, she seems to me
almost as delightful to look upon as she could have been in
her earliest sj^ing. I do not know a prettier picture than to
see her sitting' at her own door, on a summer afternoon, sur-
rounded by her children and her grand-children, — all of them
handsome, gay, and cheerful, — with her knitting on her knee,
and her sweet face beaming with benevolence and affection,
smiling on all around, and seeming if it were her sole desire
to make every one about her as good and as happy as herself.
One cause of the long endurance of her beauty is undoubt-
edly its delightful expression. The sunshine and harmony of

STEPHEN LANE^ THE BUTCHER.

11

mind depicted in her countenance would have made plain fea-
tures pleasing ; and there was an intelligence, an enlargement
of intellect, in the bright eyes and the fair expanded forehead,
which mingled well with the sweetness that dimpled round
her lips. Butcher’s wife and butcher's daughter though she
were, yet was she a graceful and gracious woman, — one of
nature’s gentlewomen in look and in thought. All her words
were candid — all her actions liberal — all her pleasures un-
selfish— though, in her great pleasure of giving, I am not
quite sure that she was so — she took such extreme delight in
it. All the poor of the parish and of the town came to her
as a matter of course — that is always the case with the emi-
nently charitable ; but children also applied to her for their
little indulgences, as if by instinct. All the boys in the
street used to come to her to supply their several desires ; to
lend them knives and give them string for kites, or pencils for
drawing, or balls for* cricket, as the matter might be. Those
huge pockets of hers were a perfect toy-shop, and so the
urchins knew. And the little damsels, their sisters, came to
her also for materials for dolls' dresses, or odd bits of ribbon
for pincushions, or coloured silks to embroider their needle-
cases, or any of the thousand- and-one knick-knacks which
young girls fancy they want. However out of the way the
demand might seem, there was the article in Mrs. Lane’s great
pocket. She knew the tastes of her clients, and was never
unprovided. And in the same ample receptacle, mixed with
knives, and balls, and pencils for the boys, and dolls' dresses,
and sometimes even a doll itself, for the girls, might be found
sugar-plums, and cakes, and apples, and gingerbread-nuts for
the ‘‘ toddling wee things,” for whom even dolls have no
charms. There was no limit to Mrs. Lane's bounty, or to the
good-humoured alacrity with which she would interrupt a
serious occupation to satisfy the claims of the small people.
Oh, how they all loved Mrs. Lane !

Another and a very different class also loved the kind and
generous inhabitant of tlie Butts — the class who, having seen
better days, are usually averse to accepting obligations from
those whom they have been accustomed to regard as their in-
feriors. With them Mrs. Lane’s delicacy was remarkable.
Mrs. Lucas, the curate’s widow, often found some unbespoken
luxury, a sweetbread, or so forth, added to her slender order ;

12

STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER.

and Mr. Hughes, the consumptive young artist, could never
manage to get his bill. Our good friend the butcher had his
full share in the benevolence of these acts ; but the manner of
them belonged wholly to his wife. ^

Her delicacy, however, did not, fortunately for herself and
for her husband, extend to her domestic habits. She was well
content to live in the rude plenty in which her father lived,
and in which Stephen revelled ; and by this assimilation of
taste, she not only insured her own comfort, but preserved,
unimpaired, her influence over his coarser but kindly and
excellent disposition. It was, probably, to this influence that
her children owed an education which, without raising them
in the slightest degree above their station or their home, yet
followed the spirit of the age, and added considerable cultiva-
tion, and plain but useful knowledge, to the strong manly
sense of their father, and her own sweet and sunny tem])era-
ment. They are just what the children of such parents ought
to be. The daughters, happily married in their own rank of
life ; the sons, each in his different line, following the foot-
steps of their father, and amassing large fortunes, not by
paltry savings, or daring speculations, but by well-grounded
and judicious calculation — by sound and liberal views — by
sterling sense and downright honesty.

Universally as Mrs. Lane w'as beloved, Stephen had his
enemies. He was a politician — a Reformer — a Radical, in
those days in which reform was not so popular as it has been
lately : he loved to descant on liberty, and economy, and re-
trenchment, and reform, and carried his theory into practice,
in a way exceedingly inconvenient to the Tory member, whom
be helped to oust; to the mayor and corporation, whom he
watched as a cat watches a mouse, or as Mr. Hume watches
the cabinet ministers ; and to all gas companies, and paving
conspanies, and water companies, and contractors of every sort,
whom he attacks as monopolisers and peculators, and twenty
more long words with bad meanings, and torments out of their
lives ; — for he is a terrible man in a public meeting, hath a
loud, sonorous voice, excellent lungs, cares for nobody, and is
quite entirely inaccessible to conviction, the finest of all
qualities for your thorough-going partisan. All the Tories
hated Mr. Lane.

STEPHEN LANE> THE BUTCHER,

13

in Belforcl ; and amongst the Whigs and Radicals, or, to
gather the two parties into one word, the Reformers, he was
decidedly popular — the leader of the opulent tradespeople
both soc^lly and politically. He it was — this denouncer of
mayor’s feasts and parish festivals — who, after the great con-
test, which his candidate gained by three, gave to the new
member a dinner more magnificent, as he declared, than any
he had ever seen or ever imagined — a dinner like the realiza-
tiorFof an epicure’s ^eam, or an embodiment of some of the

Ssions of the old dramatic poets, accompanied by wines so
istocratft, that they blushed to find themselves on a butcher’s
table. He was president of a smoking-club, and vice-president
of half-a-dozen societies where utility and charity come in the
shape of a good dinner ; was a great man at a Smithfield
cattle-show ; an eminent looker-on at the bowling-green, which
salutary exercise he patronised and promoted by sitting at an
open window in a commodious smoking-room commanding
the scene of action; and a capital performer of catches and
glees.

He was musical, very, — did I not say so when talking of
his youthful accomplishments ? — playing by ear, “ with fingers
like toes” (as somebody said of Handel), both on the piano
and the flute, and singing, in a fine bass voice, many of the
old songs which are so eminently popular and national. His
voice was loudest at church, giving body, as it were, to the
voices of the rest of the congregation, and ^‘(Jod save the
King” at the theatre would not have been worth hearing
without Mr. Lane — he put his whole heart into it ; for, with
all his theoretical radicalism, the King — any one of the three
kings in whose reign he hath flourished, for he did not reserve
his loyalty for our present popular monarch, but bestowed it
in full amplitude on his pretlecessors, the two last of the
Georges — the King hath not a more loyal subject. He is a
great patron of the drama, especially the comic drama, and
likes no place better than the stage-box at the Relford theatre,
a niche meant for six, which exactly fits him. All-fours is
his favourite game, and Joe Miller bis favourite author.

His retirement from business and from Relford occasioned
a general astonishment and consternation. It was perfectly
understood that he could aftbrd to retire from business as well
as any tradesman who ever gave up a flourishing shop in tjiat

14

STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER.

independent borough ; but the busybodies, who take so unac-
countable a pleasure in meddling with everybody’s concerns,
had long ago decided that he never would do so ; and that he
should abandon the good town at the very moment when the
progress of the Reform Bill had completed his political tri-
umphs — when the few adversaries who remained to the cause,
as he was wont emphatically to term it, had not a foot to stand
upon — did appear the most wonderful wonder of wonders
that had occurred since the days of Katterfelto. Stephen
Lane without Belford ! — Belford, especially in its reformed
state, without Stephen Lane, appeared as incredible as the
announcements of the bottle-conjuror. Stephen Lane to
abandon the great shop in the Butts ! What other place
would ever hold him ? And to quit the scene of his triumphs
too ! to fly from the very field of victory ! — the thing seemed
impossible !

It was, however, amongst the impossibilities that turn out
true. Stephen Lane did leave the reformed borough, perhaps
all the sooner because it waft reformed, and his work was over
— his occupation was gone. It is certain that, without per-
haps exactly knowing his own feelings, our good butcher did
feel the vacuum, the want of an exciting object, which often
attends upon the fulfilment of a great hope. He also felt and
understood better the entire cessation of opposition amongst
his old enemies, the corporation party. Dang it, they might
ha’ shown fight, these corporationers ! I thought Ben Bailey
had had more bottom !” was his exclamation, after a borough-
meeting which had passed olF unanimously ; and, scandalised
at the pacific disposition of his adversaries, our puissant grazier
turned his steps towards fresh fields and pastures new.”

He did not move very far. Just over the border-line,
which divides the parish of St. Stephen, in the loyal and inde-
pendent borough of Belford, from the adjoining hamlet of
Sunham — that is to say, exactly half a mile from the great
shop in the Butts, did Mr. Lane take up l)is abode, calling his
suburban habitation, which was actually joined to the town
by two rows of two-story houses, one of them fronted with
poplars, and called Marvell Terrace, in compliment to the
patriot of that name in Charles’s days, — calling this rm in
urbe of his the country/’ after the fashion of the inhabitants
of Kensington and Hackney, and the other suburban villages

STEPHEN LANE^ THU BUTCHER.

which surround London proper ; as if people who live in the
iniilst of brick houses could have a right to the same rustic
title with those who live amongst green fields. Compared to
the Butts, however, Mr. Lane's new residence was almost
rural ; and the country he called it accordingly.

Retaining, however, his old town predilections, his large,
square, commodious, and very ugly red house, with very white
mouldings and window-frames, (red, picked out with white,)
and embellished by a bright green door and a resplendent
brass knocker, was placed close to the roadside — as close as
possible ; and the road happening to be that which led from
the town of Belford to the little place called London, he had
the happiness of counting above sixty stage-coaches, which
passed his door in the twenty-four hours, with vans, waggons,
carts, and other vehicles in proportion ; and of enjoying, not
only from his commodious mansion, but also from the window
of a smoking-room at the end of a long brick wall which
parted his garden from the road, all the clatter, dust, and din
of these several equipages — the noise being duly enhanced
by there being, just opposite his smoking-room window, a
public-house of great resort, where most of the coaches stopped
to take up parcels and passengers, and where singing, drink-
ing, and four- corners were going on all the day long.

One of his greatest pleasures in this retirement seems to be
to bring all around him — wife, children, and grand-children
— to the level of his own size, or that of his prize ox, — the
expressions are nearly synonymous. The servant-lads have
a chubby breadth of feature, like the stone heads, with wings
un^er them (jsoi~disant cherubim), which one sees perched
round old monuments ; and the maids have a broad, Dutch
look, full and florid, like the women in Teniers* pictures.
The very animals seem bursting with over-fatness : the great
horse who draws his substantial equipage labours under the
double weight of his master’s flesh and his own ; his cows
look like stalled oxen : and the leash of large red greyhounds,
on whose prowess and pedigree he prides himself, and whom
•he ^boasts, and vaunts, and brags of, and offers to bet upon, in
the very spirit of the inimitable dialogue between Page and
Shallow in the Merry Wives of Windsor," could no more
run a course in their present condition than they could fly,—
the hares would stand and laugh at them.

Mr. Lane is certainly a very happy person ; ^though, when

16

STEPHEN LANE> THE BUTCHER,

first he removed from the Butts, it was quite the fashion to
bestow a great deal of pity on the poor rich man, self-con-
demned to idleness, — which pity was as much thrown away
as pity for those who have the power to follow their own
devices generally is. Our good neighbour is not the man to
be idle. Besides going every day to the old shop^ where his
sons carry on the business, and he officiates en amateur,
attending his old clubs, and pursuing his old diversions in
Belford, he has his farm at Sunham to manage, (some five
hundred acres of pasture and arable land, left him by his
father-in-law,) and the whole parish to reform. He has
already begun to institute inquiries into charity-schools and
poor-rates, has an eye on the surveyor of highways, and a
close watch on the overseer ; he attends turnpike-meetings,
and keeps a sharp look-out upon the tolls ; and goes peeping
about the workhouse with an anxiety to detect peculation that
■would do honour even to a radical member of the reformed
House of Commons.

Moreover, he hath a competitor worthy of his powers in the
shape of the village orator, Mr. Jacob Jones, a little whipper-
snapper of a gentleman farmer, with a shrill, cracked voice,
and great activity of body, who, having had the advantage of
studying some odds-and-ends of law, during a three years’
residence in an attorney’s office, has picked up therein a com-
petent portion of technical jargon, together with a prodigious
volubility of tongue, and a comfortable stock of impudence ;
and, under favour of these good gifts, hath led the village
senate by the nose for the last dozen years. Now, Mr. Jacob
Jones is, in his way, nearly as great a man as Mr. Lane ; r^es
his bit of blood a fox-hunting with my lord ; dines once a year
with Sir John ; and advocates abuses through thick and thin
— he does not well know why — almost as stoutly as our
good knight of the cleaver does battle for reform. "J'hese two
champions are to be pitted against each other at the next
vestry-meeting, and much interest is excited as to the event of
the contest. I, for my part, think that Mr. Lane will carry
the day. He is, in every way, a man of more substance ; and
Jacob Jones will no more be able to withstand the mo-
mentum of his republican fist,” than a soldier of light infantry
could stand the charge of a heavy dragoon. Stephen, honest
man, will certainly add to his other avocations that of overseer
of Sunham. Much good may it do him !

WILIilAM AND HANNAH.

17

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

Don’t talk to me, William, of our having been asked in
church. Don't imagine that I mind what people may say about
that. Let them attend to their own concerns, and leave me
to manage mine. If this were our wedding morning, and I
were within half an hour of being your wedded wife, I would
part from you as readily as I throw away this rose-leaf, if I
were to know for certain what 1 have heard to-day. Were
you or were you not three times tipsy last week, at that most
riotous and disortlerly house, ‘ The Eight Bells?’'*

This searching question was put by the young and blooming
Hannah Kowe, a nursery-maid in the family of General May-
nard, of The Elms, to her accepted lover, William Curtis, a
very fine young man, who followed his trade of a shoemaker
in the good town of Belford. The courtship had, as the fair
damsel's words implied, approached as nearly as well could be
to the point matrimonial ; Hannah having given her good
mistress warning, anil prepared her simple wardrobe ; and
William, on his part, having taken and furnished a room —
for to a whole house neither of them aspired — near his mas-
ter's shop: William, although a clever workman, and likely to
do well, being as yet only a journeyman.

A finer couple it would be difficult to meet with any where,
than William and his Hannah. He was tall, handsome, and
intelligent, with a perpetual spring of good-humour, and a
fund of that great gift of Heaven, high animal spirits, which
being sustained by equal life of mind (for otherwise it is not
a good gift), rendered him universally popular. She had a
rich, sparkling, animated beauty — a warmtl||Of manner and of
feeling equally prepos^essing. She loved William dearly, and
William knew it. Perhaps he did not equally know that her
quickness of temper was accompanied by a decision and firm-
ness of character, which on any really essential point would
not fail to put forth its strength. Such a point was this, as
Hannah knew from woful experience: for her own father had
been a frequenter of the alehouse — had ruined himself alto-
gether, health, property, and character, by that degrading and
ruinous propensity, and had finally died of slieer drunkenness,

o

18

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

leaving her mother a broken-hearted woman, and herself a
child of eight years old^ to struggle as best they might through
the wide world. AVell did Hannah remember her dear mother,
and that dear mother’s sufferings ; — how she would sit night
after night awaiting die return of her brutal husband, bending
silently and patiently over the needlework by which she en-
deavoured to support herself and her child ; and how, when
he did return, when his reeling unsteady step was heard on
the pavement, or his loud knock at the door, or the horrid
laugh and frightful oath of intoxication in the street, how the
poor wife would start and tremble, and strive to mould her
quivering lips into a smile, and struggle against her tears, as
he called fiercely for comforts which she had not to give, and
thundered forth imprecations on herself and her harmless
child. Once she remembered — she could not have been above
five years old at the time, but she remembered it as if it had
happened yesterday — awaking suddenly from sleep on her
wretched bed, and seeing, by the dim moonlight that came in
through the broken windows, her father in his drunken frenzy
standing over and threatening to strangle her, whilst her mo-
ther, frantic with fear, tore him away, and had her arm broken
in the struggle. This scene, and scenes like • this, passed
through Hannah’s mind, as she leant over the calm face of
Mrs. Maynard’s lovely infant who lay sleeping on her lap,
and repeated in a low calm voice her former question to Wil-
liam — Were you not three times tipsy last week ? ”

Now, Hannah I ” replied William, evasively, how can
you be so cross and old-maidish ? If 1 did get a little merry,
what was it but a joyful parting from bachelor friends, before
beginning a steady married life ? What do you women know
of such things ? What can you know ? and what can a young
fellow do with hi|(iself when his work is over, if he is not to
go to a public house ? We have not work now for above half
a day — that is to say, not more work in a week than I could
finish in three days ; and what, I should like to know am I
to do with the remainder ? At the Eight Bells, say what you
like of the place, there’s good liquor and good company, a
good fire in winter, a newspaper to read, and the news of the
town to talk over. Does not your master himself go to
his club every night of his life when he’s in London ? And
what— -since you won’t let me come above twice a- week to

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

19

see you — what would you have me do with the long even-
ings when my work is over?

Hannah was a little posed at this question. Luckily, how-
ever, a present sent to her mistress by an old servant who had
married a gardener, consisting of a fine basket of strawberries,
another of peas, and a beautiful nosegay of pinks and roses,
caught her eye as they lay on the table before her.

Why not take a little plot of ground, and work in that of
evenings, and raise vegetables and flowers ? Any thing rather
than the public house !

William laughed outright.

“ Where am I to get this plot of ground ? tell me that,
Hannah ! You know that at present I am lodging with my
aunt in Silver Street, who has only a little bricked yard; and
when we move to our room in Newton Ilow, why the outlet
there will not be so large as that table, 'rhis is all nonsense,
as you well know. I am no gardener, but a merry shoemaker ;
and such as I am you have chosen me, and you must take
me.”

And you will not promise to give up the Eight Bells ? ”
asked Hannah, imploringly.

Promise — no” — hesitated William. 1 dare say 1 should
do as you like; but as to promising — it is you who have
promised to take me ^ for better for worse,’ ” added he, ten-
derly : surely you do not mean to deceive me ? ”

^H)h, William !” said Hannah, ^Mt is you who would de-
ceive me and yourself. I know what the public-house leads
to ; and suffer what I may, better sufler now and alone, than
run the risk of that misery. Either promise to give up the
Eight Bells, or, dearly as 1 love you, and far as things have
gone, we must part,” added she, firmly.

And as William, though petitioning, remonstrating, coaxing,
storming, and imploring, would not give the re(juired pledge,
part they did ; his last speech denouncing a vengeance which
she could ill bear.

You will repent this, Hannah ! for you have been the ruin
of me. You have broken my heart ; and if you hear of me
every night at the alehouse, endeavouring to drown care, re-
member that it is you, and you only, who have driven me
there !” And so saying, he walked sturdily out of the house.

William went away in wrath and anger, determined to be

20

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

as good, or rather as bad, as his word. Hannah remained,
her heart overflowing with all the blended and contending
emotions natural to a woman (I mean a woman that has a
heart) in such a situation. Something of temper had mingled
with the prudence of her resolution, and, as is always the case
where a rash and hasty temper has led a generous mind astray,
the reaction was proportion ably strong. She blamed herself
— she pitied William — she burst into a passion of tears ; and
it was not until the violence of her grief had awakened and
terrified the little Emily, and that the necessity of pacifying
the astonished child compelled her into the exertion of calming
herself, (so salutary in almost all cases is the recurrence of our
daily duties !) that she remembered the real danger of Wil-
liam’s unhappy propensity, the dying injunctions of her mother,
and those fearful scenes of her own childhood which still at
times haunted her tlrcams. Her father, she had heard, had
once been as kind, as gay, as engaging as W'illiam himself —
as fond of her mother as William was of her. Where was the
security that these qualities would not perish under the same
evil influence and degrading habits? Her good mistress, too,
praised and encouraged her, and for a while she was comforted.

Very, very soon the old feeling returned. Hannah had
loved with the full and overflowing affection of a fond and
faithful nature, and time and absence, which seldom fail to
sweep away a slight and trivial fancy, only gave deeper root
to an attachment like hers ; her very heart clung to William.
Her hours were passed in weaving visions of imaginary inter-
views, and framing to herself imaginary letters. She loved to
plan fancied dialogues — to think how fondly he would woo,
and how firmly she would reject — for she thought it quite
sure that she should reject ; and yet she yearned (oh, how she
yearned !) for the opportunity of accepting.

But such opportunity was far away. The first thing she
heard of him was, that he was realizing his own prediction by
pursuing a course of continued intemperance at the Eight
Bells; the next, that he was married! — married, it should
seem, from hate and anger, not from love, to a young thought-
less girl, portionless and improvident as himself. Nothing but
misery could ensue from such a union ; — nothing but misery
did. Then came the beer-houses, with their fearful addition
of temptation ; and Hannah, broken-hearted at the accounts of

WILLTAM AND HANNAH.

21

his evil courses, and ashamed of the interest which she still
continued to feel for one who could never be any thing to her
again, rejoiced when General and Mrs. Maynard resolved to
spend some time in Germany, and determined that she should
accompany them.

From Germany the travellers proceeded to Italy, from Italy
to Switzerland, and from Switzerland to France ; so that nearly
five years elapsed before they returned to the Elms. Five
years had wrought the usual changes amongst Hannah’s old
friends in that neighbourhood. The servants were nearly all
new, the woman at the lodge had gone away, the keeper’s
daughter was married ; so that, finding none who knew her
anxiety respecting AV'^illiam, and dreading to provoke the an-
swer which she feared awaited her inquiries, she forbore to ask
any question respecting her former lover.

One evening, soon after their arrival. General Maynard
invited his wife and family to go and see the cottage-gardens
at Belford. We’U take even little Emily and Hannah,” added
he, ‘Mbr it’s a sight to do one’s heart good — ay, fifty times
more good than famous rivers and great mountains ! and I
would not have any of my children miss it for the fee-simple
of the land, which, by the bye, happens to belong to me. You
remember my friend Howard writing to me when I was at
Manheim, desiring to rent about thirty acres near Belford,
which had just fallen vacant. Well, he has fenced it, and
drained it, and made roads and paths, and divided it into plots
of a quarter of an acre, more or less, and let it out, for exactly
the same money which he gives me, to the poor families in the
town, chiefly to the inhabitants of that wretched suburb Silver-
street, where the miserable hovels had not an inch of outlet,
and the children were constantly grovelling in the mud and
running under the horses’ feet, passing their whole days in in-
creasing and progressive demoralisation ; whilst their mothers
were scolding and quarrelling and starving, and their fathers
drowning their miseries at the beer-shops — a realisation of
Crabbe’s gloomiest pictures ! Only imagine what these gar-
dens have done for these poor people ! Every spare hour of
the parents is given to the raising of vegetables for their own
consumption, or for sale, or for the rearing and fatting that
prime luxury of the English peasant, a pig. The children have
healthy and pleasant employment. The artisan who can only

c 3

22

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

find work for two or three days in the week is saved from the
parish ; he who has full pay is saved from the ale-house. A
feeling of independence is generated, and the poor man’s heart
is gladdened and warmed by the conscious pride of property in
the soil — by knowing and feeling that the spring shower and
the summer sun are swelling and ripening his little harvest.

I speak ardently,” continued the general, rather ashamed
of his own enthusiasm ; “but I’ve just been talking with that
noble fellow Howard, who in the midst of his many avocations
has found time for all this, and really I cannot help it. Whilst
I was with him, in came one of the good folks to complain
that his garden was rated. ‘ I’m glad of it,’ replied Howard ;
' it’s a proof that you are a real tenant, and that this is not a
charity affair.’ And the man went off an inch taller. Howard
confesses that he has not been able to resist the tem]>tation of
giving them back the amount of the rent in tools and rewards
of one sort or other. He acknowledges that this is the weak
part of his undertaking ; but, as 1 said just now% he could not
help it. Moreover, I doubt if tbe giving back the rent in that
form be wrong, — at least, if it be wrong to give it back at
first The working classes are apt to be suspicious of their
superiors — I am afraid that they have sometimes bad reason
to be so ; and as the benefits of the system cannot lie imme-
diately experienced, it is well to throw in these little boons to
stimulate them to perseverance. But here we are at Mr.
Howard’s,’* pursued the good general, as the carriage stopped
at the gate of the brewery ; for that admirable person was
neither more nor less than a country brewer.

A beautiful place was that old-fashioned brewery, situated
on an airy bit of rising ground at the outskirts of the town, the
very last house in the borough, and divided from all other
buildings by noble rows of elms, by its own spacious territory
of orchard and meadow, and by the ample outlet, full of drays,
and carts, and casks, and men, and horses, and all the life and
motion of a great and flourishing business ; forming, by its
extent and verdure, so striking a contrast to the usual dense
and smoky atmosphere, the gloomy yet crowded appearance of
a brewer’s yard.

The dwelling-house, a most picturesque erection, with one
end projecting so as to form two sides of a square, the date
1642 on the porch, and the whole front covered witli choice

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

^3

creepers, stood at some distance from tke road ; and General
Maynard and his lady hurried through it, as if knowing in-
stinctively that on a fine summer evening Mrs. Howard's
flower-garden was her drawing-room. What a flower-garden
it was ! A sunny turfy knoll sloping down abruptly to a
natural and never-failing spring, that divided it from a mea-
dow, rising on the other side with nearly equal abruptness ;
the steep descent dotted with flower-beds, rich, bright, fresh,
and glowing, and the path that wound up the hill leading
through a narrow stone gateway — an irregular arch overrun
with luxuriant masses of the narrow-leaved white-veined ivy,
which trailed its long pendant strings almost to the ground,
into a dark and shadowy walk, running along the top of a
wild precipitous bank, clothed partly with forest-trees, oak,
and elm, and poplar — partly with the finest exotics, cedars,
cypresses, and the rare and graceful snowdrop-tree, of such
growth and beauty as are seldom seen in England, — and ter-
minated by a root-house overhung by the branches of an im-
mense acacia, now in the full glory of its white and fragrant
blossoms, and so completely concealing all but the entrance of
the old root-house, that it seemed as if that quiet retreat had
no other roof than those bright leaves and tassel-like flowers.

Here they found Mrs, Howard, a sweet and smiling woman,
lovelier in the rich glow of her matronly beauty than she had
been a dozen years before as the fair Jane Dorset, the belle of
the country side. Here sat Mrs. Howard, surrounded by a
band of laughing rosy children ; and directed by her, and
promising to return to the brewery to coffee, the general and
his family proceeded by a private path to the cottage allot-
ments.

Pleasant was the sight of those allotments to the right-
minded and the kind, who love to contemplate order and regu-
larity in the moral and physical world, and the cheerful and
willing exertion of a well-directed and prosperous industry.
It was a beautiful evening late in June, and the tenants and
their families were nearly all assembled in their small terri-
tories, each of which was literally filled with useful vegetables
in every variety and of every kind. Here was a little girl
weeding an onion-bed, there a boy sticking French beans;
here a woman gathering herbs for a salad, there a man stand-
ing in proud and happy contemplation of a superb plot of
c 4

24

WILLIAM AND HANNAH*

cauliflowers. Everywhere tliere was a hum of cheerful voices,
as neighbour greeted neighbour, or the several families chatted
amongst each other.

The general, who was warmly interested in the subject, and
had just made himself master of the details, pointed out to
Mrs. Maynard those persons to whom it had been most bene-
ficial. “ That man,’* said he, “ who has, as you perceive, a
double allotment, and who is digging with so much good-will,
has ten children and a sickly wife, and yet has never been
upon the parish for the last two years. That thin young man
in the blue jacket is an out-door painter, and has been out of
work these six weeks — (by the bye, Howard has just given
him a job) — and all that time has been kept by his garden.
And that fine-looking fellow who is filling a basket with peas,
whilst the pretty little child at his side is gathering straw-
berries, is the one whom Howard prizes most, because he is a
person of higher qualities — one who was redeemed from in-
tolerable drunkenness, retrieved from sin and misery, by this
occupation. He is a journeyman shoemaker — a young
widower ”

Hannah heard no more — she had caught sight of William,
and William had caught sight of her ; and in an instant her
hands were clasped in his, and they were gazing on each other
with eyes full of love and joy, and of the blessed tears of a
true and perfect reconciliation.

Yes, Hannah !” said William, have sinned, and deeply;
but I have suffered bitterly, and most earnestly have 1 re-
pented. It is now eighteen months since 1 have entered a
public-house, and never will I set foot in one again. Do you
believe me, Hannah?”

Do I !” exclaimed Hannah, with a fresh burst of tears;

oh, what should I be made of if I did not ? ”

And here are the peas and the strawberries,” said William,
smiling; “and the pinks and the roses,” added he, more ten-
derly, taking a nosegay from his lovely little girl, as Hannah
stooped to caress her ; “ and the poor motherless child — my
only child ! she has no mother, Hannah — will you be one to
her?^'

“ Will I V* again echoed Hannah ; “oh, William, will I
not?''

“ Remember, I am still only a poor journeyman — I have
no money,” said William.

WILLIAM AND HANNAH#

25

But I have,” replied Hannah.

And shall we not bless Mr. Howard,” continued he, as
with his own Hannah on his arm, and his little girl holding
by his hand, he followed Mrs. Maynard and the general, —
shall we not bless Mr. Howard, who rescued me from idle*
ness and its besetting temptations, and gave me pleasant and
profitable employment in the cottage-garden ?

Note. — The system on which the above story is founded, is
happily no fiction ; and although generally appropriated to the
agricultural labourer of the rural districts, it has, in more than
one instance, been tried with eminent success amongst the
poorer artisans in towns ; to whom, above all other classes, the
power of emerging from the (in every sense) polluted atmo-
sphere of their crowded lanes and courts must be invaluable.

The origin of the system is so little known, and seems to
me at once so striking and so natural, that I cannot resist the
temptation of relating it almost in the words in which it was
told to me by one of the most strenuous and judicious sup-
porters of the cottage allotments.

John Denson was a poor working man, an agricultural
labourer, a peasant, who, finding his weekly wages inadequate
to the support of his family, and shrinking from applying for
relief to the parish, sought and obtained of the lord of the
manor the permission to enclose a small plot of waste land, of
which the value had hitherto been very trifling. By diligent
cultivation he brought it to a state of great productiveness and
fertility. This was afterwards sufficiently extended to enable
him to keep a cow or two, to support his family in comfort and
independence, and ultimately to purchase the fee-simple of the
land. During the hours of relaxation, he educated himself
sufficiently to enable him to relate clearly and correctly the
result of his experience ; and feeling it his duty to endeavour
to improve the condition of his fellow-labourers, by informing
them of the advantages which he had derived from indus-
trious and sober habits, and the cultivation of a small plot of
pound, he published a pamphlet called “ The Peasants Warn-
ing Voice,” which, by attracting the attention of persons of
humanity and influence, gave the first impulse to the system^

26

WILLIAM AND HANNAH.

Amongst the earliest and most zealous of its supporters was
Lord Braybrooke, to whom, next after John Denson (for
that noble-minded peasant must always claim the first place),
belongs the honour of promulgating extensively a plan replete
with humanity and wisdom.

It was first carried into effect by his Lordship, several years
ago, in the parish of ^affron Walden, a place then remarkable
for misery and vice, but which is now conspicuous for the
prosperity and good conduct of its poorer inhabitants. The
paupers on the rates were very numerous (amounting, I
believe, to 135), and are now comparatively few, and — which
is of far more importance, since the reduction of the poor-rates
is merely an incidental consequence of the system — the cases
of crime at the Quarter Sessions have diminished in a similar
proportion.

Since that period the cottage allotments have been tried in
many parts of England, and always with success. Indeed, they
can hardly fail, provided the soil be favourable to spade-
husbandry, the rent not higher than tliat which would be
demanded from a large occupier of land, the ground properly
drained and fenced, and the labourers not encumbered with
rules and regulations : for the main object l)eing not merely to
add to the physical comforts, but to raise the moral character
of the working-classes, especial care should l>e taken to induce
and cherish the feeling of independence, and to prove to them
that they are considered as tenants paying rent, and not as
almsmen receiving charity.

I am happy to add, that the Mr. Howard of this little
story (that is not quite his name) does actually exist. He is
an eminent brewer in a small town in our neighbourhood, and
has also another great brewery near London ; he has a large
family of young children and orphan relations, is an active
magistrate, a sportsman, a horticulturist, a musician, a
cricketer; is celebrated for the most extensive and the roost
elegant hospitality ; and yet, has found time, not only to
establish the system in his own parish, but also to officiate as
Becretary to a society for the promotion of this good object
throughout the county. Heaven grant it success ! I, for my
poor part, am thoroughly convinceil, that if ever project were
at once benevolent and rational, and practicable, and wise, it
is this of the cottage allotments ; and 1 can hardly refrain

TUB 01) RATES OF 8T. NICHOLAS’.

27

from entreating my readers — especially iny fair readers — -"to
exert whatever power or influence they may possess in favour
of a cause which has for its sole aim and end the putting
down of vice and misery, and the diffusion of happiness and
virtue.

THE CURATE OF ST. NICHOLAS’.

Amongst the most generally beloved, not merely of the
clergy, but of the whole population of Belford, as that popu-
lation stood some thirty years ago, was my good old friend the
curate of St. Nicholas’; and, in my mind, he had qualities
that might both explain and justify Ids universal popularity.

Belford is at present singularly fortunate in the parochial
clergy. Of the two vicars, whom 1 have the honour and the
privilege of knowing, one confers upon the place the ennobling
distinction of being the residence of a great poet ; whilst both
are not only, in the highest sense of that highest word, gen-
tlemen, in birth, in education, in manners, and in mind, but
eminently popular in the pulpit, and, as parish priests, not to
be excelled, even amongst the generally excellent clergymen
of the Church of England — a phrase, by the way, which just
at this moment sounds so like a war-cry, that 1 cannot too
quickly disclaim any intention of inflicting a political disserta-
tion on the unwary reader. My design is simply to draw a
faithful likeness of one of the most peaceable members of the
establisliment. ,

Of late years, there has been a prodigious change in the
body clerical. The activity of the dissenters, the spread of
education, and the immense increase of population, to say
nothing of that ‘^word of power,” Reform, have combined to
produce a stirring spirit of emulation amongst the younger
which has quite changed the aspect of the profession.
Heretofore, the ‘‘ church militant” was the quietest and easiest
of all vocations ; and the most slender and lady-like young
gentleman, the ‘^mamma’s darling” of a great family, whose
lungs were too tender for the bar, and whose frame was too
delicate for the army, might be sent with perfect comfort to
the snug curacy of a neighbouring parish, to read Horace,

28

THE CURATE OP ST. NICHOLAS.

cultivate auriculas^ christen, marry, and bury, about twire a
quarter, and do duty once every Sunday, Now times are
altered ; prayers must be read and sermons preached twice a
day at least, not forgetting lectures in Lent, and homilies at
tide times ; workhouses are to be visited ; schools attended,
boys and girls taught in the morning, and grown-up bumpkins
in the evening; children are to be catechised; masters and
mistresses looked after ; hymn-books distributed ; bibles given
away ; tract societies fostered amongst the zealous, and psal-
mody cultivated amongst the musical. In short, a curate,
now-a days, even a country curate, much more if his parisli
lie in a great town, has need of the lungs of a barrister in
good practice, and the strength and activity of an officer of
dragoons.

Now this is just ns it ought to be. Nevertheless, I cannot
help entertaining certain relen tings in favour of the well-
endowed churchman of the old school, round, indolent, and
rubicund, at peace with himself and with all around him, who
lives in quiet and plenty in his ample parsonage-house, dis-
pensing with a liberal hand the superfluities of his hospitable
table, regular and exact in his conduct, but not so precise as
to refuse a Saturday night’s rubber in his own person, or to
condemn his parishioners for their game of cricket after ser-
vice on Sunday afternoons ; charitable in word and deed,
tolerant, indulgent, kind, to the widest extent of that widest
word ; but, except in such wisdom (and it is of the l)e8t), no
wiser than that eminent member of the church, Parson Adams.
In a word, exactly such a man as my good old friend the rector of
Hadley, ci-devant curate of St. Nicholas' jn Belford, who has
just passed the window in that venerable rclique of antiquity,
his one-horse chaise. Ah, we may see him still, through the
budding leaves of the clustering China rose, as he is stopping
to give a penny to poor lame Dinah Moore — stopping, and
stooping his short round person with no small effort, that he
may put it into her little hand, because the child would have
some difficulty in picking it up, on account of her crutches.
Yes, there he goes, rotund and rosy, a tun of a man,” filling
three parts of his roomy equipage ; the shovel-hat with a rose
in it, the very model of orthodoxy, overshadowing his white
hairs and placid countenance; his little stunted foot-boy in a
purple livery, driving a coach-horse as fat as his master ; whilst

TllK CURATE OF ST. NICHOLAS^. 29

the old wliite terrier, fatter still — his pet terrier Venom,
waddles after the chaise (of which the head is let down, in
lionour, 1 presume, of this bright April morning), much re-
sembling in gait and aspect that other white waddling thing, a
goose, if a goose w'cre gifted w'ith four legs.

I'here he goes, my venerable friend the reverend Josiah
Singleton, rector of Hadley-cum-Doveton, in the county of
Southampton, and vicar of Delworth, in the county of Surrey,
'rhere he goes, in whose youth tract societies and adult schools
were not, but who yet has done as much good and as little
harm in his generation, has formed as just and as useful a link
between the ricli and the poor, the landlord and the peasant,
as ever did honour to religion and to human nature. Perhaps
this is only saying, in other words, that, under any system,
benevolence and single-mindedness will produce their proper
effects.

I am not, however, going to preach a sermon over my
worthy friend — long may it be before his funeral sermon is
preached ! or even to write his ehge, for eloges are dull things ;
and to sit down with the intention of being dull, — to set
about the matter with malice prepense (howbeit the calamity
may sometimes happen accidentally), I hold to be an unneces-
sary impertinence. I am only to give a slight sketch, a sort
of bird’s eye view of my reverend friend’s life, which, by the
w'ay, has lx?en, except in one single particular, so barren of
incidents, that it might almost pass for one of those pro-
verbially uneventful narratives. The Lives of the Poets.

Fifty-six years ago, our portly rector — then, it may be
presumed, a sleek and comely bachelor — left college, where
he had passed through his examinations and taken his degrees
with respectable mediocrity, and was ordained to the curacy of
St. Nicholas’ parish, in our market-town of Belford, where, by
the recommendation of his vicar, Dr. Grampound, he fixed
himself in the small but neat first-floor of a reduced widow
gentlewoman, who endeavoured to eke out a small annuity by
letting lodgings at eight shillings a-week, linen, china, plate,
glass, and waiting included, and by keeping a toy-shop, of
which the whole stock, fiddles, drums, balls, dolls, and shuttle-
cocks, might be safely appraised at under eight pounds, in-
cluding a stately rocking-horse, the poor widow’s rheval d-e
bataille, which had occupied one side of Mrs. Martin’s shop

30

THE CURATE OP ST. NICHOLAS*.

from the time of her setting up in business, and still con-
tinued to keep his station uncheapened by her thrifty cus-
tomers.

There, by the advice of Dr. Gram pound, did he place him-
self on his arrival at Belford ; and there he continued for full
thirty years, occupying the same first-floor ; the sitting-room
— a pleasant apartment, with one window (for the little toy-
shop was a corner-house) abutting on the High Bridge, and
the other on the Market Place — still, as at first, furnished
with a Scotch carpet, cane chairs, a Pembroke table, and two
hanging shelves, which seemed placed there less for their
ostensible destination of holding books, sermons, and news-
papers, than for the purpose of tabbing against the head of
every unwary person who might happen to sit down near the
wall ; and the small chamber behind, with its tent bed and
dimity furniture, its mahogany chest of drawers, one chair
and no table ; with the self-same spare, quiet, decent landlady,
in her faded but well-preserved mourning gown, and the iden-
tical serving maiden, Peggy, a demure, civil, modest damsel,
dwarfed as it should seem by constant curtseying, since from
twelve years upwards she had not grown an inch. Except the
clock of Time, which, however imperceptibly, does still keep
moving, every thing about the little toy-shop in the Market
Place of Belford was at a stand-still. The very tabby cat
which lay basking on the hearth, might have passed for his
progenitor of happy memory, who took his station there the
night of Mr. Singleton’s arrival ; and the self-same hobby-
horse still stood rocking opposite the counter, the admiration
of every urchin who passed the door, and so completely the
pride of the mistress of the domicile, that it is to be ques-
tioned— convenient as thirty shillings, lawful money of Great
Britain, might sometimes have proved to Mrs. Martin — whe-
ther she would not have felt more reluctance than pleasure in
parting with this, the prime ornament of her stock.

There, however, the rocking-horse remained ; and there re-
mained Mr. Singleton, gradually advancing from a personable
youth to a portly middle-aged man ; and obscure and un-
tempting as the station of a curate in a country town may
appear, it is doubtful whether those thirty years of compara-
tive poverty were not amongst the happiest of his easy and
tranquil life.

TBB OURATE OF ST. NICHOLAS*.

31

Very happy they undoubtedly were. To say nothing of
the comforts provided for him by his assiduous landlady and
her civil domestic, both of whom felt all the value of their
kind, orderly, and considerate inmate ; especially as compared
with the racketty recruiting officers and troublesome single
gentlewomen who had generally occupied the first-floor ; our
curate was in prime favour with his vicar. Dr, Grampound, a
stately pillar of divinity, rigidly orthodox in all matters of
church and state, who having a stall in a distant cathedral, and
another living by the sea-side, spent but little of his time at
Belford, and had been so tormented by his three last curates
— the first of whom was avowedly of whig politics, and more
than suspected of Calvinistic religion ; the second a fox-
hunter, and the third a poet — that he was delighted to
intrust his flock to a staid, sol)er youth of high-church and
tory princijdes, who never mounted a horse in his life, and
would hardly have trusted himself on Mrs. Martin’s steed of
wood ; and whose genius, so far from carrying him into any
flights of poesy, never went beyond that weekly process of
sermon-making which, as the doctor observed, was all that a
sound divine need know of authorship. Never was curate a
greater favourite with his principal. He has even been heard
to prophesy that the young man would be a bishop.

Amongst the parishioners, high and low, Josiah was no less
a favourite. The poor felt his benevolence, his integrity, his
piety, and his steady kindness ; whilst the richer classes (for
in the good town of Belford few were absolutely rich) were
won by his unaffected good-nature, the most popular of all
qualities. There was nothing shining about the man, no
danger of his setting the Thames on fire, and the gentlemen
liked him none the worse for that ; but his chief friends and
allies were the ladies — not the young ladies, (by whom, to
say the truth, he was not so much courted, and whom, in re-
turn, he did not trouble himself to court,) but the discreet
mammas and grandmammas, and maiden gentlewomen of a
certain age, amongst whom he found himself considerably
more valued and infinitely more at home.

Sooth to say, our staid, worthy, prudent, sober young man,
had at no time of his life been endowed with the buoyant and
mercurial spirit peculiar to youth. There was in him a con-
siderable analogy between the mind and the body. Both were

32

THE CURATE OP ST. NICHOLAS*.

heavy, sluggish, and slow. He was no strait-laced person
either ; he liked a joke in his own quiet way well enough ;
but as to encountering the quips, and cranks, and quiddities
of a set of giddy girls, he could as soon have daiiced a cotillon.
The gift was not in him. So with a wise instinct he stuck to
their elders ; called on them in the morning ; drank tea with
them at night ; played whist, quadrille, cassino, backgammon,
commerce, or lottery-tickets, as the party might require ; told
news and talked scandal as well as any woman of them all :
accommodated a difference of four years* standing between the
wife of the chief attorney and the sister of the principal phy-
sician ; and was appealed to as absolute referee in a question
of precedence between the widow of a post-captain and the
lady of a colonel of volunteers, which had divided the whole
gentility of the town into parties. In short, he was such a
favourite in the female world, that when the ladies of Belford
(on their husbands setting up a weekly card-club at the
Kings Arms) resolved to meet on the same night at each
other’s houses, Mr. Singleton was, by unanimous consent, the
only gentleman admitted to the female coterie.

Happier man could hardly be, than the worthy Josiah in
this fair company. At first, indeed, some slight interruptions
to his comfort had offered themselves, in the shape of over-
tures matrimonial, from three mammas, two papas, one uncle,
and (I grieve to say) one lady, an elderly young lady, a sort of
dowager spinster in her own proper person, who, smitten with
Mr. Singleton’s excellent character, a small independence, besides
his curacy in possession, and a trifling estate (much exagge-
rated by the gossip fame) in expectancy, and perhaps some-
what swayed by Dr. Grampound’s magnificent prophecy, had,
at the commencement of his career, respectively given him to
understand that he might, if he chose, become more nearly
related to them. This is a sort of dilemma which a well-bred
man, and a roan of humanity, (and our curate was both)
usually feels to be tolerably embarrassing. Josiah, however,
extricated himself with his usual straightforward simplicity.
He said, and said truly, “ that he considered matrimony a
great comfort — that he had a respect for the state, and no
disinclination to any of the ladies ; but that he was a poor
mati^And could not aflPord so expensive a luxury.” And with
theii^xception of one mamma, who had nine unmarried daugh-

THE CURATE OP ST. NICHOLAS*. S3

ters, and proposed waiting for a living, and the old young lady
who had offered herself, and who kept her bed and threatened
to die on his refusal, thus giving him the fright of having to
bury his inamorata, and being haunted by her ghost — with
these slight exceptions, every body took his answer in good
part.

As he advanced in life, these sort of annoyances ceased ■—
his staid sober deportment, ruddy countenance and portly
person, giving him an air of being even older than he really
was ; so that he came to be considered as that privileged per-
son, a confirmed old bachelor, the general beau of the female
coterie, and the favourite marryer and christener of the town
and neighbourhood. Nay, as years wore away, and he began
to marry some whom he had christened, and to bury many
whom he had married, even Dr. Grampouiurs prophecy
ceased to be remembered, and he fippeared to be as firmly
rooted in Belford as St. Nicholas’s church, and as completely
fixed in the toy-shop as the rocking-horse.

Destiny, however, had other things in store for him. The
good town of Belford. as I have already hinted, is, to its own
misfortune, a poor place I an independent borough, and sub-
ject, accordingly, to the infliction (privilege, I believe, the
voters are pleased to call it) of an election. For thirty years

— during which period there had been seven or eight of
these visitations — the calamity had passed over so mildly,
that, except three or four days of intolerable drunkenness,
(accompanied, of course, by a sufficient number of broken
heads,) no other mischief had occurred; the two griat
families, whig and tory, who might be said to divide the town

— for this was before the days of that active reformer Stephen
Lane — having entered, by agreement, into a compromise to
return one member each ; a compact which might have held
good to this time, had not some slackness of attention on the
part of the whigs (the Buffs, as they were called in election
jargon) provoked the Blue or tory part of the corporation, to
sign a requisition to the Hon. Mr. Del worth, to stand as their
second candidate, and produced the novelty of a sliarp contest
in their hitherto peaceful borough. When it came, it came
with a vengeance* It lasted eight days — as long as it could
last. The dre<.’S of that cup of evil were drained to the ^ery
bottom. Words are faint to describe the tumult, the turmoil.

34

THE CURATE OP ST. NICHOLAS*.

the blustering, the brawling, the abuse, the ill-will, the
battles by tongue and by fist, of that disastrous time. At last
the Blues carried it by six ; and on a petition and scrutiny in
the House of Commons, by one single vote : and as Mr.
Singleton had been engaged on the side of the winning party,
not merely by his own political opinions, and those of his
ancient vicar. Dr. Grampouiul, but also by the predilections of
his female allies, who were Blues to a woman, those who
understood the ordinary course of such matters were not
greatly astonished, in the course of the ensuing three years, to
find our good curate, rector of Hadley, vicar of Del worth, and
chaplain to the new member's father. One thing, however,
was remarkable, that, amidst all the scurrility and ill blood of
an election contest, and in spite of the envy which is pretty
sure to follow a sudden change of fortune, Mr. Singleton
neither made an enemy nor lost a friend. His peaceful un-
offending character disarmed offence. He had been unex-
pectedly useful too to the winning party, not merely by
knowing and having served many of the poorer voters, but by
possessing one eminent qualification not sufficiently valued or
demanded in a canvasser: he was the best listener of the
party, and is said to have gained the half-clozen votes which
decided the election by the mere process of letting the people
talk.

This talent, which, it is to be presumed, he acquired in the
ladies* club at Belford, and which probably contributed to his
popularity in that society, stood him in great stead in the
aristocratic circle of Delworth Castle. The whole family was
equally delighted and amused by his bonhomie and simplicity ;
and he in return, captivated by their kindness, as well as
grateful for their benefits, paid them a sincere and unfeigned
homage, which trebled their good-will. Never was so honest
and artless a courtier. There was something at once diverting
and amiable in the ascendancy which every thing connected
with his patron held over Mr, Singleton's imagination. Loyal
subject as he unquestionably was, the king, queen, and royal
family would have been as nothing in his eyes, compared with
Lord and Lady Delworth and their illustrious offspring. He
purchased a new peerage, which in the course of a few days
opened involuntarily on the honoured page which contained
an account of their genealogy; his walls were hung with

THE CURATE OP ST. NICHOLAS*.

35

ground-plans of Hadley House, elevations of Delwortli Castle,
maps of the estate, prints of the late and present lords, and of
a judge of Queen Anne’s reign, and of a bishop of George the
Second’s, worthies of the family ; he had, on his dining-room
mantel-piece, models of two wings, once projected for Hadley,
but which had never been built ; and is actually said to have
bought an old head of the first Duke of Marlborough, which
a cunning auctioneer had fobbed off upon him, by pretending
that the great captain was a progenitor of his noble patron.

Besides this predominant taste, he soon began to indulge
other inclinations at the rectory, which savoured a little of his
old bachelor habits. He became a collector of shells and
china, and a fancier of tulips ; and when he invited the coterie
of Belford ladies to partake of a syllabub, astonished and
delighted them by the performance of a piping bull-finch of
his own teaching, who executed the Blue Bells of Scotland in
a manner not to be surpassed by the barrel organ, by means
of which this accomplished bird had been instructed. He set
up the identical one-horsc-chaise in which he was riding to-
day ; became a member of the clerical dinner club ; took in
the St. James’s Chronicle and the Gentleman’s Magazine ; and
was set down by every body as a confirmed old bachelor.

All these indications notwithstanding, nothing was less in
his contemplation than to remain in that forlorn condition.
Marriage, after all, was his predominant taste ; Ins real fancy
was for the ladies. He was fifty- seven, or thereabouts, Avhen
he began to make love ; but he has amply made up for his
loss of time, by marrying no less than four wives since that
period, (.'all him Mr. Singleton indeed! — why, his proper
name would be Doubleton. Four wdves has he had, and of
all varieties. Ilis first w^as a pretty rosy smiling lass just
come from school, who had known him all her life, and
seemed to look upon lym just as a school- girl docs upon an
indulgent grandpapa, who comes to fetch her home for the
holidays. She was as happy as a bird, poor thing I during tlie
three months she lived with him ; but then came a violent
fever and carried her off.

His next wife was a pale, sickly, consumptive lady, not
over young, for whose convenience he set up a carriage, and
for whose health he travelled to Lisbon and Madeira, and Nice,
and Florence, and Hastings, and Clifton, and all the places

D 2

36

KINO HARWOOD.

by sea aod land, abroad and at home, where sick people go to
get well ; at one of which she, poor lady, died.

Then he espoused a buxom, jolly, merry widow, who had
herself had t\vo husbands, and who seemed likely to see him
out ; but the smallpox came in her way, and she died also.

Then he married his present lady, a charming woman, nei-
ther fat nor thin, nor young nor old — not very healthy, nor
particularly sickly — who makes him very happy, and seems
to find her own happiness in making him so.

He has no cliildien by any of his v?ives ; but has abundance
of adherents in parlour and hall. Half the poor of the parish
are occasionally to be found in his kitchen, and his dining-
room is the seat of hospitality, not otdy to his old friends of
the town and his new friends of the country, but to all the
families of all his wives. He talks of them (for he talks more
now than he did at the Belford election, having fallen into the
gossiping habit of narrative old age”) in the quietest man-
ner possible, mixing, in a w'ay the most diverting and the most
unconscious, stories of his first wife and his second, of his pre-
sent and his last. He seems to have been perfectly happy
wdth all of them, especially with this. But if he should have
the misfortune to lose that delightful person, he would cer-
tainly console himself, and prove his respect for the state, by
marrying again ; and such is his reputation as a super-ex-
cellent husband, especially in the main article of giving Ids
wives their own way, that, in spite of his being even now an
octogenarian, 1 liave no doubt but there would be abundance
of fair candidates for the heart and hand of the good Kector
of Hadley.

KING HARWOOD.

The good town of Belford sivarmed, of course, with single
ladies — especially with single ladies of that despised deno-
mination which is commonly known by the title of old maids.
For gentlewomen of that description, especially of the less
affluent class (and although such a thing may be found here
nd there a rich old maid is much rarer than a poor one), a

KING HARWOOD.

37

provincial town in this protcstant country, where nunneries
are not, is the natural refuge. A village life, however humble
the dwelling, is at once more expensive — since messengers
and conveyances, men and horses, of some sort, are in the
actual country indispensable, — and more melancholy; for
there is a sense of loneliness and insignificance, a solitude
within doors and without, which none but an unconnected and
unprotected woman can thoroughly understand. And London,
without family ties, or personal importance, or engrossing
pursuit, — to be poor and elderly, idle and alone in London,
is a climax of desolation which everybody can comprehend,
because almost every one must, at some time or other have
felt in a greater or less degree the humbling sense of indi-
vidual nothingness — of being but a drop of water in the
ocean, a particle of sand by the sea-shore, which so often
presses upon the mind amidst the bustling crowds and the
splendid gaieties of the great city. To be rich or to be busy
is the necessity of London.

The ])Oor and the idle, on the other hand, get on best in a
country town. Belford was the paradise of ill-jointured
widows and portionless old maids. There they met on the
table-land of gentility, passing their mornings in calls at each
other’s houses, and their evenings in small tea-parties, seasoned
with a rubber or a pool, and garnished with the little quiet
gossiping (call it not scandal, gentle reader !) which their
habits required. So large a portion of the population con-
sisted of single ladies, that it might almost have been called a
maiden town. Indeed, a calculating Cantab, happening to be
there for the long vacation, amused his leisure by taking a
census of the female liouseholders, beginning with the Mrs.
Davisons — fine alert old ladies, between seventy and eighty,
who, being proud of their sprightliness and vigour, were
suspected of adding a few more years to their age than would
be borne out by the register, — and ending with Miss Letitia
Pierce, a damsel on the confines of forty, who was more than
suspected of a slight falsification of dates the converse way. I
think he made the sum total, in the three parishes, amount to
one hundred and seven ty-four.

The part of the town in which they chiefly congregated,
the ladies’ quarticr, was one hilly corner of the parish of St.
Nicholas, a sort of highland district, all made up of short

1) 3

38

KING HARWOOD

rows, and pigmy places, and half-finished crescents, entirely
uncontaminated by the vulgarity of shops, ill-paved, w^orse
lighted, and so placed that it seemed to catch all the smoke of
the more thickly inhabited part of the town, and was con-
stantly encircled by a wreath of vapour, like Snowdon or
Skiddaw,

Why the good ladies chose this elevated and inconvenient
position, one can hardly tell ; perhaps because it was cheap,
perhaps because it was genteel — perhaps from a mixture of both
causes ; I can only answer for the fa^lk : and of this favourite
spot the most favoured portion was a slender line of houses,
tall and slim, known by the name of ^V'arwick Terrace, consist-
ing of a tolerably spacious dwelling at either end, and four
smaller tenements linked two by two in the centre. -

The tenants of Warwick Terrace were, with one solitary
exception, exclusively female. One of the end houses was
occupied by a com for table- looking, very round Miss Blackall,
a spinster of fifty, tlie richest and the simplest of the row,
with her parrot, who had certainly more words, and nearly as
many ideas, as his mistress ,* her black footman, whose fine
livery, white turned up with scarlet, and glittering with silver
lace, seemed rather ashamed of his “ sober-suited*' neighbours ;
the plusli waistcoat and inexpressibles blushing as if in scorn.
The other corner was filled by Mrs. Lceson, a kind-hearted
hustling dame, the great ends of whose existence were visiting
and cards, who harl probably made more morning calls and
played a greater number of rubbers than any woman in Uel-
ford, ami who boasted a tabby cat, and a head maid called
Nanny, that formed a proper pendent to the parrot and (’sesar.
Of the four centre habitations, one pair w'as the residence of
Miss Savage, who bore the formidable reputation of a sensible
woman — an accusation which rested probably on no worse
foundation than a gruft' voice and something of a vinegar
aspect, — and of Miss Steele, who, poor thing! underwent a
still worse calumny, and was called literary, simply because
forty years ago she had made a grand poetical collection, con-
sisting of divers manuscript volumes, written in an upright
taper hand, and filled with such choice morceaus as Mrs. Grfe-
ville's Ode to Indifference;** Miss Seward’s Monody on
Major Andre,** sundry translations of Metastasio's Nice,** and
a considerable collection of Enigmas, on which stock, undimi-

KING HARWOOD.

39

nished and unincreased, she still traded ; whilst the last brace
of houses, linked together like the Siamese twins, was divided
between two families, the three Miss Lockes, — whom no one
ever dreamt of talking of as separate or individual personages:
one should as soon have thought of severing the Graces, or the.
Fi^ies, or the Fates, or any other classical trio, as of knowing
them apart : the three Miss Lockes lived in one of these houses,
and Mrs. Harwood and her two daughters in the other.

It is with the Harwoods only that we have to do at present.

Mrs. Harwood was the widow of the late and the mother of
the present rector of Dighton, a family-living purchasecl by
the father of her late husband, who, himself a respectable and
affluent yeoman, aspired to a rivalry with his old landlord, the
squire of the next parish ; and, when he had sent his only son
to the university, established him in the rectory, married him
to the daughter of an archdeacon, and set up a public-house,
called the Harwood Arms — somewhat to the profit of the
Heralds’ Office, who had to discover or to invent these illus-
trious bearings — had accomplished the tw’O objects of his am-
bition, and died contented.

The son proved a bright pattern of posthumous duty ; ex-
actly the sort of rector that the good old farmer would have
wished to see, did he turn out — respectable, conscientious,
always just, and often kind ; but so solemn, so pompous, so
swelling in deportment and grandiloquent in speech, that
he had not been half a dozen years inducted in the living
before he obtained the popular title of Bishop of Dighton — a
distinction which he seems to have taken in ’good part, by
assuming a costume as nearly episcopal as possible at all points,
and copying, with the nicest accuracy, the shovel hat and buzz
wig of the prelate of the diocese, a man of seventy-five. He
put his coachman and footboy into the right clerical livery, and
adjusted his household and modelled his behaviour according
to his strictest notions of the stateliness and decorum proper
to a dignitary of the church.

Perhaps he expected that the nickname by which he was so
little aggrieved would some day or other be realised ; some
professional advancement he certainly reckoned upon. But in
spite of his cultivating most assiduously all profitable con-
nections— of his christening his eldest son Earl” after a
friend of good parliamentary interest, and his younger boy

D 4

40

KING HARWOOD.

King " after anotlier — of his choosing one noble sponsor for
his daughter Georgina, and another for his daughter Henrietta
— he lived and died with no better preferment than the rectory
of Digbton, which had been presented to him by his honest
father five-and-forty years before, and to which his son Earl
succeeded: the only advantage which his careful courting of
patrons and patronage had procured for his family being com-
prised in his having obtained for his son King, through the
recommendation of a noble friend, the situation of clerk at Ins
banker s in Lombard Street.

Mrs. Harwood, a stately portly dame, almost as full of
parade as her husband, had on her part been equally unlucky.
The grand object of her life had been to marry her daughters,
and in that she had failed, probably because she had been too
ambitious and too open in her attempts. Certain it is that,
on the removal of the widow to Belford, poor Miss Harwood,
who had been an insipid beauty, and whose beauty had turned
into sallowness and haggardness, was forced to take refuge in
ill health and tender spirits, and set up, as a last cliance, for
interesting; whilst Miss Henrietta, who had live-and-twenty
years before reckoned herself accomplished, still, though with
diminished pretensions, kept the field — sang with a voice
considerably the worse for wear, danced as often as she could
get a partner, and flirted with beaux of all ages, from sixty to
sixteen — chiefly, it may be presumed, with the latter, because
of all mankind a shy lad from college is the likeliest to be
taken in by an elderly miss. A wretched personage, under
an affectation of boisterous gaiety, was Henrietta Harwood ! a
miserable specimen of that most miserable class of single women
who, at forty and upwards, go about dressing and talking like
young girls, and will not grow old.

Earl Harwood was his father slightly modernised. Jle was
a tall, fair, heavy-looking man, not perhaps quite so solemn
and pompous as “ the bishop,” but far mere cold and super-
cilious. If I wished to define him in four letters, the little
word prig” would come very conveniently to my aid ; and
perhaps, in its compendious brevity, it conveys as accurate an
idea of his manner as can be given : a prig of the slower and
graver order was Earl Harwood.

His brother King, on the other hand, was a coxcomb of the
brisker sort; up — not like generous champagne; but like

KINO HARWOOD.

41

cider, or perry, or gooseberry- wine, or the acid flash of
soda-water;” or, perhaps, more still, like the slight froth that
runs over the top of that abomination, a pot of porter, to
which, by the way, together with the fellow abominations,
snufF and cigars, he was inveterately addicted. (Jonceit and
pretension, together with a dash of the worst because the finest
vulgarity, that which thinks itself genteel, were the first and
last of King Harwood. His very pace was an amble — a frisk,
a skip, a strut, a prance — he could not walk ; and he always
stood on tiptoe, so that the heels of his shoes never wore
out. The effect of this was, of course, to make him look
less tall than he was ; so that, being really a man of middle
height, he passed for short. His figure was slight, his face
fair, and usually adorned with a smile half supercilious and
half self-satisfied, and set off by a pair of most conceited-look-
ing spectacles. There is no greater atrocity than his who
shows you glass for eyes, and, instead of opening wide those
windows of the heart, fobs you off with a bit of senseless
crystal which conceals, instead of enforcing, an honest mean-
ing — there was no speculation in those pMles which he did
glare withal.*’ For the rest, he was duly whiskered and curled ;
though the eyelashes, when by a chance removal of the spec-
tacles they were discovered, lying under suspicion of sandi-
ness ; and, the whiskers and hair being auburn, it was a dis-
puted point whether the barber’s part of him consisted in
dyeing liis actual locks, or in a supplemental periwig: that
the curls were of their natural colour, nobody believed that
took the trouble to think about it.

But it was his speech that was the prime distinction of King
Harwood : the pert fops of Congreve’s comedies. Petulant,
Witwoud, Froth, and Brisk (pregnant names !) seemed but
types of our hero. He never opened his lips (and he was
always chattering) hut to proclaim his own infinite superiority
to all about him. He would have taught liurke to speak, and
Beynolds to paint, and John Kemble to act. The Waverley
novels would have been the better for his hints; and it was
some pity that Shakspeare had not lived in these days, because
he had a suggestion that would greatly have improved his
Lear.

Nothing was too great for him to meddle with, and nothing
too little ; but his preference went very naturally with the

42

KING HAUWOOD.

latter, which amalgamated most happily with his own mind :
and when the unexpected legacy of a plebeian great-aunt, the
despised sister of his grandfather the farmer, enabled him to
leave quill-driving, of which he was heartily weary, and to
descend from the high stool in Lombard Street, on which he
had been perched for five-and-twenty years, there doubtless
mingled with the desire to assist his family, by adding his
small income to their still smaller one — for this egregious cox-
comb was an excellent son and a kind brother, just in his
dealings, and generous in his heart, when through the thick
coating of foppery one could find the way to it — some wish
to escape from the city, where his talents were, as he imagined,
buried in the crowd, smothered amongst the jostling multi-
tudes, and to emerge in all his lustre in the smaller and more
select coteries of the country. On his arrival at Belford ac-
cordingly he installed himself at once as arbiter of fashion, the
professed beau gar^on, the lady’s man of the town and neigh-
bourhood ; and having purchased a horse, and ascertained, to
his great comfort, that his avocation as a banker s clerk was
either wholly unsuspected in the county circles which his late
father had frequented, or so indistinctly known tliat the very
least little white lie in the world would pass him off as belong-
ing to the House, he boldly claimed acquaintance with every-
body in the county whose name he had ever heard in his life,
and, regardless of the tolerably visible contempt of the gentle-
men, proceeded to make his court to the ladies with might
and with main.

He miscalculated, however, the means best fitted to compass
his end. Women, even though they chance to be frivolous
themselves, do not like a frivolous man : lliey would as soon
take a fancy to their mercer as to the gentleman who offers to
choose their silks ; and if he will find fault with their em-
broidery, and correct their patterns, he must lay his account
in being no more regarded by them than their milliner or
their maid. Sooth to say, your fine lady is an ungrateful
personage ; she accepts the help, and then laughs at the
officious helper — sucks the orange and throws away the peel.
This truth found King Harwood, when, after riding to
London, and running all over that well-sized town to match
in German lamb’s wool the unmatchahle brown and gold fea-
thers of the game-cock's neck, which that ambitious cmbroid-

KING HARWOOD.

43

cress Lady Delaney aspired to imitate in a table-carpet, he
found himself saluted for his pains with the 'malicious so-
briquet of king of the bantams. This and other alFronts
drove him from the county society, which he had intended to
enlighten and adorn, to the less brilliant circles of lielford,
which perhaps suited his taste better, he being of that class of
persons who had rather reign in the town than serve in the
country ; whilst his brother carl, safe in cold silence and dull
respectability, kept sedidously amongst his rural compeers,
and was considered one of the most unexceptionable grace-*
sayers at a great dinner of any clergyman in the neighbour-
hood.

To Belford, therefore, the poor king of the bantams was
content to come, thinking himself by far the cleverest and
most fashionable man in the place ; an opinion which, I am
sorry to s^y, he had pretty much to himself. The gentlemen
smiled at his ])retensions, and the young ladies laughed, which
was just the reverse of the impression which he intended td
produce. How the thing happened 1 can hardly tell, for in
general the young ladies of a country town are sufficiently
susceptible to attention from a London man. Perhaps the
* man was not to their taste, as conceit finds few favourers ; or
perhaps they disliked the kitul of attention, which consisted
rather in making perpetual demands on their admiration than
in offering the tribute of Ids own : perhaps, also, the gentle-
man, who partook of the family fault, and would be young in
spite of the register, was too old for them. However it befel,
he was no favourite amongst the Belford belles.

Neither was he in very good odour with the mammas. He
was too poor, too proud, too scornful, and a Harwood, in which
name all the pretension of the world seemed gatliered. Nay,
he not only in his own person out- Har wooded Harwood, but
was held accountable for not a fe\v of the delinquencies of that
obnoxious race, whose airs had much augmented since he had
honoured Belford by his presence. Before his arrival. Miss
Henrietta and her stalely mamma had walked out, like the
other ladies of the town, unattended : the king came, and
they could not stir without being followed as their shadow by
the poor little foot-boy, who formed the only serving-man of
their establishment ; before that avatar they dined at six, now
seven was the family hour: and whereas they were wont,

44*

KING HAUWOOD.

previously, to take that refection without alarming their
neighbours, and causing Miss Blackall's parrot to scream, and
Mrs. Leeson's cat to mew, now the solitary maid of all- work,
or perchance the king himself, tinkled and jangled the door-
bell, or the parlour-bell, to tell those who knew it before that
dinner was ready (I wonder he had not purchased a gong),
and to set every lady in the terrace a moralizing on the sin of
pride and the folly of pretension. Ah ! if they who are at
once poor and gently bred could but understand how safe a
drefuge from the contempt of the rich they would find in frank
and open poverty I how entirely the pride of the world bends
before! a simple and honest humility ! — how completely \vc,
the poorest, may say with Constance (provided only that we
imitate her action, and throw ourselves on the ground as we
speak the words), Here is my throne, — let kings come bow
to it ! — if they would but do this, how much of pain and

grief they might save themselves ! But this was a truth
which the Harwoods had yet to discover.

Much of his unpopularity might, however, be traced to a
source on which he particularly prided himself: — a misfortune
which has befallen many a wiser man.

Amongst his other iniquities the poor king of the bantams
had a small genius for music, an accomplishment that flattered
at once his propensities and his pretensions, his natural love
of noise and his acquired love of consequence. He sung,
with a falsetto that rang through one’s head like the screams of
a young peacock, divers popular ballads in various languages,
very difficult to distinguish each from each ; he was a most
pertinacious and intolerable scraper on the violoncello, an in-
strument which it is almost as presumptuous to touch, unless
finely, as it is to attempt and to fail in an epic poem or an
historical picture ; and he showed the extent and variety of his
want of power, by playing quite as ill on the flute, which
again may be compared to a failure in the composition of an
acrostic, or the drawing of a butterfly. Sooth to say, he was
equally bad in all ; and yet he contrived to be quite as great
a pest to the unmusical part of society — by far the larger part
in Belford certainly, and, 1 suspect, every where — as if he
had actually been the splendid performer he fancied himself.
Nay, he was even a greater nuisance than a line player can
be; for if music be, as Charles Lamb happily calls it, “ mea-

KING HARWOOD. 4*5

sured malice/' malice out of all measure must be admitted to
be worse still.

Generally speakinj^, people who dislike the art deserve to
be as much Wed as they are by the concord of sweet
sounds." There is not one English lady in a thousand who,
when asked if she be fond of music, has courage enough to
say, No I she thinks it would be rude to do so ; whereas, in
my opinion, it is a civil way of getting out of the scrape,
since, if the performance be really such as commands admira-
tion (and the very best music in an enjoyment as exquisite as
it is rare), the delight evinced comes as a pleasant surprise, or
as a graceful compliment ; and if (as is by very far mo^ pro-
bable) the singing chance to be such as one would rather
not hear, why then one has, at least, the very great comfort
of not being obliged to simper and profess oneself pleased,
but may seem as tired, and look as likely to yawn as one
will, without offering any particular affront, or incurring
any worse im])utation than that of being wholly without
taste for music — a natural defect, at which the amateur
who has been excruciating one’s ears vents his contempt in
a shrug of scornful pity, little suspecting how entirely (as
is often the case with that amiable passion) the contempt is
mutual.

Now there are certain cases under which the evil of music
is much mitigated : when one is not expected to listen for
instance, as at a large party in London, or, better still, at a
great house in the country, where there are three or four
rooms open, and one can get completely out of the way, and
hear no more of the noise than of a peal of bells in the next
parish. Music, under such circumstances, may be endured
with becoming philosophy. But the poor Belfordians had no
such resource. Their parties were held, at the best, in two
small drawing-rooms laid into one by the aid of folding-doors ;
so that when Mr. King, accompanied by his sister Henrietta,
who drummed and strummed upon the piano like a boarding-
school Miss, and .sung her part in a duet with a voice like a
raven, began his eternal vocalization (for, never tired of hear-
ing himself, he never dreamt of leaving off until his unhappy
audience parted for the night) — when once the self-delighting
pair began, the deafened whist-table groaned in dismay ; lot-
tery-tickets were at a discount ; commerce at a stand-still ;

46

KINO HARWOOD.

Pope Joan died a natural deaths and the pool of quadrille came
to an untimely end.

The reign of the four kings, so long the mild and absolute
sovereigns of the Belford parties, might be said to be over,
and the good old ladies, long their peaceable and loving sub-
jects, submitted with peevish patience to the yoke of the
usurper. They listened and they yawned ; joined in their
grumbling by the other vocalists of this genteel society, the
singing young ladies and manoeuvring mammas, who found
themselves literally “pushed from their stools,’* their music
stools^ by the Harwood monopoly of the instrument, as well
as affibnted by the bantam king’s intolerance of all bad singing
except his own. How long the usurpation would have lasted,
how long the discon^nt would iiave been confined to hints
and frowns, and whimpered mutterings, and very intelligible
inuendoes, wdthout breaking into open rebellion — in other
words, how long it would have been before King Harwood
was sent to Coventry, there is no telling. He himself put an
end to his musical sovereignty, as other ambitious rulers have
done before him, by an overweening desire to add to the extent
of his dominions.

Thus it fell out.

One of I he associations which did the greatest honour to
Belford, was a society of amateur musicians — chiefly trades-
men, embued with a real love of the art, and a desire to ex-
tend and cultivate an amusement which, however one may
laugh at the afifectation of musical taste, is, wlien so pursued,
of a very elevating and delightful character — who met fre-
quently at each other’s houses for the sake of practice, and,
encouraged by the leadership of an accomplished violin player,
and the possession of two or three voices of extraordinary
brilliancy and power, began about this time to extend their
plan, to rehearse two or three times a week at a great room
belonging to one of the society, and to give amateur concerts
at the Town-hall.

Very delightful these concerts were. Every man exerted
himself to the utmost, and, accustomed to play the same j)ieces
with the same associates, the performance had much of the
unity which makes the charm of family music. They were
80 unaflTected too, so thoroughly unpretending — there was
such genuine good taste, so much of the true spirit of enjoy-

KING MAIIWOOD.

47

irient^ and so little of trickery and display, that the audience,
who went prepared to be indulgent, were enchanted ; the
amateur concerts became the fashion of the day, and all the
elegance and beauty of the town and neighbourhood crowded
to the Belford Town-hall. This was enough for Mr. King
Harwood. He had attended once as a hearer, and he in-
stantly determined to be heard. It was pretermitting his
dignity, to be sure, and his brother, Earl, would have been
dumb for ever before he would have condescended to such an
association. But the vanity of our friend the king was of a
more popular descrij)tion. Rather than not get applause, he
would have played Punch at Belford fair ; accordinfjly he
offered himself as a tenor singer to the amateur society, and
they, won by his puffs of hi« musical genius — which, to say
the truth, had about them the jirevailing power which always
results from the speaker’s perfect faith in his own assertions,
the self-deluding faith which has never failed to make con-
verts, from Mahomet down to Joanna Southcot — they, won
to belief, and civilly unwilling to put his talents to the proof,
accepted his services for the next concert.

Luckless King Harwood ! He to sing in concerted pieces !
Could not he have rcmeml)ered that unhappy supper of the
Catch and Glee Club in Finsbury Square, where, for his sake.
Non Nobis, Domine,’* was hissed, and “ Glorious Apollo”
wellnigh damned ? He to aspire to the dictatorship of
country musicians! Had he wholly forgotten that still more
unlucky morning, when, aspiring to reform the church music
of Dighton, he and the parish clerk, and the obedient sexton,
began, as announced and pre-arranged, to warble Luther’s
Hymn ; whilst all the rest of the singing gallery, three clari-
onets, two French horns, the bassoon, and the rustic vocalists
struck up the Hundredth Psalm ; and the uninstructed charity
children, catching the last word as given out by the clerk, com-
pleted the triple chain, not of harmony, but of discord, by
screaming out at the top of their shrill childish voices the
sweet sounds of the Morning Hymn ? Was that day forgotten,
and that day’s mortification ? — when my lord, a musical
amateur of the first water, whom the innovation was intended
to captivate, was fain to stop his cognoscentic ears, whilst
Lady Julia held her handkerchief to her fair face to conceal
her irrepressible laughter, and the unhappy, source of this con-

48

KING HARWOOD.

fusion ran first of all to the Rectory to escape from tlie titter-
ing remarks of the congregation, and then half-way to London
to avoid the solemn rebuke of the rector ? Could that hour
be forgotten ?

I suppose it was. Certainly he offered himself and was
accepted ; and was no sooner installed a member of the
Society, than he began his usual course of dictation and find-
ing fault. His first contest was that very fruitful ground of
dispute, the concert bill. With the instrumental pieces he
did not meddle ; but in the vocal parts the Society had wisely
confined themselves to English words and English composers,
to the great horror of tlie new prhno tenore, who proposed to
substitute Spohr and Auber and Rossini, for Purcell and
Harrington and Bishop, and to have vulgar English

name” in the whole bill of fare. *

To think of the chap!” exclaimed our good friend
Stephen Lane, when Master King proposed a quartet from the

Cenerentola,’' in lieu of the magniheent music which has
wellnigh turned one of the finest tragedies in the world into
the very finest opera — (I mean, of course, Matthew Locke's
music in Macbeth — think of the chap!” exclaimed
Stephen, who had sung Hecate with admirable power and
beauty for nearly forty years, and whose noble bass voice still
retained its unrivalled richness of tone — ‘‘ To think of his
wanting to frisk me into some of liis parly-voo stuff, and
daring to sneer and snigger not only at old Locke's music ! — ■
and 1 11 thank any of your parly-voos to show me finer — but
at Shakspeare himself 1 1 don't know much of poetry, to be

sure,” said Stephen ; but I kiiow^ this, that Shakspeare’s the
poet of Old England, and that every Englishman's bound to
stand up for him, as he is for his country or his religion ; and,
dang it, if that chap dares to fleer at him again before my
face, ril knock him down — and so you may tell him, Master
Antony," pursued the worthy butcher, somewhat wrath against
the leader, whose courtesy had admitted the offending party
— you may tell him ; and I tell you, that if I had not
stood up all my life against the system, Pd strike, and leave
you to get a bass where you could. I hate such puppies, and
so you may tell him ! ” Thus saying, Stephen walked away,
and the concert bill remained unaltered.

If (as is possible) there had been a latent hope that the new

KINO HARWOOD.

49

member would take offence at his want of influence in the
programme of the evening’s amusement, and strike ’* him-
self, the hope was disappointed. Most punctual in the or-
chestra was Mr. King Harwood, and most delighted to perceive
a crowded and fashionable audience. He placed himself in a
conspicuous situation and a most conspicuous attitude, and sat
out first an overture of Weber's, then the fine old duet Time
has not thinned my flowing hair," and then the cause of
quarrel, “ When shall we three meet again," in which Stephen
had insisted on his bearing no part, with scornful sang-froid
— although the Hecate was so superb, and tlie whole perform-
ance so striking, that, as if to move his spleen, it had been
rapturously encored. The next piece was O Nanny ! "
harmonised for four voices, in which he was to bear a part —
and a most conspicuous part he dicl hear, sure enough ! The
essence of that sweetest melody, which custom cannot stale,"
is, as every one knows, its simplicity ; but simplicity made no
part of our vocalist’s merits ! No one that heard him will
ever forget the trills, and runs and shakes, the cadences and
flourishes, of that “ O Nanny I " — The other three voices
(one of which was Stcpherfs) stopped in astonishment, and
the panting violins “ toiled after him in vain." At last,
Stephen Lane, somewhat provoked at having been put out of
his ow’u straightforward course by any thing, — for, as he said
afterwards, he thought he could have sung “ O Nanny ! " in
the midst of an earthquake, and determined to see if he could
stop the chap’s flourishes, — suddenly snatched the fiddlestick
from the wondering leader, and jerked the printed glee out of
the white-gloved hands of the singer, as he was holding the
leaves with the most delicate affectation — sent them sailing
and fluttering over the heads of the audience, and then, as the
king, nothing daunted, continued his variations on Tliou
Wert fairest," followed up his blow by a dexterous twitch with
.the same convenient instrument at the poor beau’s caxon,
which flew spinning along the ceiling, and alighted at last on
one of the ornaments of the centre chandelier, leaving the luck-
less vocalist with a short crop of reddish hair, slightly bald and
ornewhat grizzled, a fierce pair of whiskers curled and dyed,
id a most chap-fallen countenance, in the midst of the cheers,
le bravos, and the encores of the diverted audience, who

50

KING HARWOOD*

laughed at the exploit from the same resistless impulse that
tempted honest Stephen to the act.

Flesh and blood could not withstand it, man ! exclaimed
he apologetically, holding out his huge red fist, which the
crest-fallen beau was far too angry to take ; but l*m quite
ready to make the wig good ; I’ll give you half-a-dozen, if you
like, in return for the fun ; and I’d recommend their fitting
tighter, for really it’s extraordinary what a little bit of a jerk
sent that fellow flying up to the ceiling just like a bird. The
fiddlestick’s none the worse — nor you either, if you could but
think so.”

But in the midst of this consolatory and conciliatory ha-
rangue, the discomfited hero of the evening disappeared,
leaving his O Nanny ! ” under the feet of the company, and
his periwig perched on the chandelier over their heads.

The result of this adventure was, in the first place, a most
satisfactory settlement of the question of wig or no wig, which
had divided the female world of Belford ; and a complete cure
of his musical mania on the part of its hero. He never sung
a note again, and has even been known to wince at the sound
of a barrel organ, whilst those little vehicles of fairy tunes,
French work-boxes and snuff-boxes, were objects of his es-
pecial alarm. He always looked as if he expected to hear the
sweet air of O Nanny ! ” issuing from them.

One would have thought, that such a calamity would have
been something of a lesson. But vanity is a strong- rooted
plant that soon sprouts out again, crop it off as closely as you
may, and the misadventure wrought but little change in his
habits. For two or three days (probably whilst a new wig
was making) he kept his room, sick or sulky ; then he rode
over to Dighton for two or three days more ; after which he
returned to Belford, revisited his old haunts and renewed his
old ways, strutting and skipping as usual, the loudest at public
meetings — the busiest on committees — the most philosophical
member of the Philosophical Society, at which, by the way,
adventuring with all the boldness of ignorance on certain
chemical experiments, he very literally burnt his fingers ; and
the most horticultural of the horticulturaiists, marching about
in a blue apron, like a real gardener, flourishing watering-
pots, cheapening budding -knives, and boasting of his marvels
in graffing and pruning, although the only things resembling

kino HARWOOD.

51

trees in his mother’s slip of a garden were some smoky China
roses that would not blow, and a few blighted currants that
refused to ripen.

But these were trifles. He attended all the more serious
business of the town and county — was a constant man at the
vestry, although no householder, and at borough and county
meetings, although he had not a foot of land in the world.
He attended rail-road meetings, navigation meetings, turnpike
meetings, gas-work meetings, paving meetings, Macadamizing
meetings, water- work meetings, cottage-allotment meetings,
anti-slavctrade meetings, church missionary meetings, education
meetings of every sort, and dissenting meetings of all deno-
minations ; never failed the bench ; was as punctual at an
inquest as the coroner, at the quarter- sessions as the chairman,
at the assizes as the judge, and hath been oftener called to
order by the court, and turned out of the grand-jury room by
the foreman, than any other man in the county. In short,
as Stephen Lane, whom he encountered pretty frequently in
the course of his perambulations, pithily observed of him,

A body was sure to find the chap wherever he had no busi-
ness.”

Stephen, who probably thought he had given him punish-
ment enough, regarded the poor king after the fashion in
which his great dog Smoker would look upon a cur whom he
had tossed once and disdained to toss again — a mixture of
toleration and contempt. The utmost to which the good
butcher was ever provoked by his adversary's noisiest nonsense
or pertest presumption, was a significant nod towards the
chandelier from whence the memorable wig had once hung
pendent, a true escutcheon of pretence ; or, if that memento
were not sufficient, the whistling a few bars of Where thou
wert fairest,” — a gentle hint, which seldom failed of its effect
in perplexing and dumb-founding the orator.

They were, however, destined to another encounter ; and,
as so often happens in this world of shifting circumstance, the
result of that encounter brought out points of character which
entirely changed their feelings and position towards each
other.

Stephen had been, as I have before said, or ftieant to say,
a mighty cricketer in his time; and, although now many stone
too heavy for active participation, continued as firmly attached

m 9,

52

KING HARWOOD.

to the sport, as fond of looking on and promoting that most
noble and truly English game, as your old cricketer, when of
a hearty English character, is generally found to be. He
patronised and promoted the diversion on all occasions, formed
a weekly club at Belford for the sake of practice, assigned
them a commodious meadow for a cricket-ground, trained up
sons and grandsons to the exercise, made matches with all the
parishes round, and was so sedulous in maintaining the credit
of the Belford eleven, that not a lad came into the place as an
apprentice, or a journeyman — especially if he happened to
belong to a cricketing county — without Stephen’s examining
into his proficiency in his favourite accomplishment. Towards
blacksmiths, who from the development of muscular power in
the arms arc often excellent batsmen, and millers, who are
good players one scarcely knows why — it runs in the trade —
his attention was particularly directed, and his researches were
at last rewarded by the discovery of a first-rate cricketer, at a
forge nearly opposite his own residence.

Caleb Hyde, the handicraftsman in question, was a spare,
sinewy, half-starved looking young man, as ragged as the
wildest colt he ever shod. Humphry Clinker was not in a
more unclothed condition when he first shocked the eyes of
Mrs. Tabitha Bramble ; and, Stephen seeing that he was a
capital ironsmith, and sure to command good wages, began to
fear that his evil plight arose, as in nine cases out of ten
raggedness does arise, from the gentle seductions of the beer-
houses. On inquiry, however, he found that his protege was
as sober as if there were not a beer-house in the world ; that
he had been reduced to his present unseemly plight by a long
fever ; and that his only extravagance consisted in his having,
ever since he was out of his apprenticeship, supported by the
sweat of his brow an aged mother and a sickly sister, for
whose maintenance, during his own tedious illness, he had
pawned his clothes, rather than allow them to receive relief
from the parish. This instance of afiectionate independence
won our butcher’s heart.

That’s what I call acting like a man and an Englishman !”
exclaimed honest Stephen. 1 never had a mother to take
care of,'* conthiued he, pursuing the same train of thought —
** that is, 1 never knew her ; and an unnatural jade she must
have been: but nobody belonging to me should ever have

KING HARWOOD. 53

received parish money whilst I had the use of my two hands ;
— and this poor fellow must be seen to !

And as an induction to the more considerable and more
permanent benefits which he designed for him, he carried
Caleb off to the cricket-ground, where there was a grand ren-
dezvous of all the amateurs of the neighbourhood, beating up
for recruits for a great match to come oft' at Danby-park on
the succeeding week.

They give their players a guinea a ilay/' thought Stephen ;

and I’d bet fifty guineas that Sir Thomas takes a fancy to
him.”

Now, the Belford cricket- ground happened to be one of
Mr. King Harwood’s many lounges. He never, to be sure,
condescended to play there ; but it was an excellent oppor-
tunity to find fault with those that did, to lay down the law
on disputed points, to talk familiarly of the great men at
Lord’s, and to boast how in one match, on that classic ground,
he had got more notches than Mr. Ward, had caught out
Mr. Budd, and bowled out Lord Frederick. Any body, to
have heard him, would have thought him in his single person
able to beat a whole eleven. That marquee on the Belford
cricket-ground was the place to see King Harwood in his
glory.

There he was, on the afternoon in question, putting in his
word on all occasions ; a word of more importance than usual,
because, Sir Thomas being himself unable to attend, his
steward, whom he had sent to select the auxiliaries for the
great match, was rather more inclined than his master would
have been to listen to his suggestions (a circumstance which
may be easily accounted for by the fact, that the one did know
him, and the other did not), and therefore in more danger of
being prejudiced by his scornful disdain of poor Caleb, towards
whom he had taken a violent aversion, first as a protege of
Mr. Lane’s, and secondly as being very literally an unwashed
artificer,” Stephen having carried him off from tlie forge
without even permitting the indispensable ablutions, or the
slight improvement in costume which his scanty wardrobe
would have permitted.

He would be a disgrace to your eleven, Mr. Miller ! ” said
his bantamic majesty to the civil steward ; Sir Thomas

K 3

54

KING HARWOOD.

would have to "clothe him from top to toe. There's the
cricketer that 1 should recommend/* added he, pointing to a
young linendraper, in nankeen shorts, light shoes, and silk
stockings. He understands the proper costume, and is, in
my mind, a far prettier player. Out ! ” shouted '' the skip-
ping king,** as Caleb, running a little too hard, saved himself
from being stumped out by throwing himself down at full
length, with his arm extended, and the end of his bat full two
inches beyond the stride ; Out ! fairly out ! ’*

No out!” vociferated the butcher; ‘Mt’s a thing done
every day. He’s not Out, and you are ! ** exclaimed the man
of the cleaver.

But the cry of out ’* having once been raised, the other
side, especially the scout who had picked up and tossed the
ball, and the wicket-keeper who had caught it from the scout,
and the bowler — a dogged surly old player, whom Caleb’s
batting had teased not a little — joined in the clamour ; and
forthwith a confusion and a din of tongues, like that of the
Tower of Babel, arose amongst cricketers and standers by;
from the midst of which might be heard at intt'rvals, Lord*s
Ground,*’ Howard,” Mr. Ward,** Mr. Budd,** Lord
Frederick,” and The Marybone club,” in the positive dog-
matical dictatorial tones of Mr. King Harwood ; and the ap-
parently irrelevant question, O Nanny, wilt thou gang with
me ? ” sung in his deep and powerful baritone voice by Stephen
Lane.

At last, from mere weariness, there was a pause in the
uproar ; and our honest butcher, wiping his fine broad manly
face, exclaimed, half in soliloquy,

To be sure, it’s foolish enough to make such a squabbling
at a mere practising bout amongst ourselves ; but one can’t
help being aggravated to hear a chap, who sits there never
touching a bat. Jay down the law as if he could beat all
England ; whereas it's my firm opinion that he never played
in a match in his life. If he had, he’d want to play now. I
defy a man that has been a cricketer not to feel a yearning,
like, after the game when it*s going on before his eyes ; and
I would not mind laying a smartish wager tliat his playing is
just as bad as his singing.”

I'll play any man for thirty pounds, the best of two in-
nings, at single wicket ! ** replied King, producing the money.

KINO UABWOOD. 55

Done/’ replied Stephen ; and Caleb, here, shall be
your man.”

Surely, Mr. Lane,” responded the affronted beau, you
can't intend to match me with a dirty ragged fellow like that ?
Of course I expect something like equality in my opponent —
some decent person. No one could expect me to play against
a journeyman blacksmith.”

Why not? ” demanded the undaunted radical; we 're
all the same flesh and blood, whether clean or dirty — all
sprung from Adam. And as to Caleb, poor fellow ! who
pawned his clothes to keep his old mother and his sick sister,
1 only, wish we were all as good. Howsomever, as that match
would be, as you say, rather unequal — for I’ll be bound that
he’d beat you with his right hand tied behind him — why, it
would not be fair to put him against you. Here’s my little
grandson Gregory, who won’t be ten years old till next Mar-
tinmas— he shall play you; or, dang it, man,” shouted
Stephen, ‘‘ I’ll play you myself ! I have not taken a bat in
hand these twenty years,” continued he, beginning, in spite of
the remonstrances of his friends, especially of poor Caleb, to
strip off his coat and waistcoat, and prepare for the encounter,
— I have not touched bat or ball for these twenty years,
but I’m as sure of beating that chap as if he was a woman.
So hold your tongue, Peter Jenkins ! be quiet, Caleb ! Don't
you prate about your grandmother, Gregory ; for play I will.
And get you ready. Master Harwood, for I mean to bowl you
out at the first ball."

And Master King did make ready accordingly ; tied one
handkerchief round the knee of his white trousers and another
round his waist, lamented the want of his nankeens and his
cricketing pumps, poised the bats, found fault with the ball,
and finally placed himself in attitude at the wicket; and
having won the toss, prepared to receive the ball, which
Stephen on his part was preparing very deliberately to deliver.

Stephen in his time had lx*en an excellent fast bowler ; and
as tliat power was not affected by his size (though probably
somewhat impaired by want of i>ractice), and his confidence
in his adversary’s bad play was much increased by the manner
in which he stood at his wicket, he calculated with the most
comfortable certainty on getting him out whenever he liked;
and he was right ; the unlucky King could, neidier stop nor

B 4f

56

KINO HAHWOOD.

Strike. He kept no iruard over his wicket ; and in less than
three ininutes the stumps rattled without his having once hit
the ball.

It was now” Stephen’s turn to go in — the fattest cricketer
of a surety that ever wielde<l bat. He stood up to his wicket
like a man ; and considering that King's bowling was soon
seen to be as bad as his hitting — that is to say, as bad as
anything could be — there w’as every chance of his stopping
the ball, and continuing in for three hours ; but w”hether he
would get a notch in three days, whether dear Stephen Lane
cmld run, w”as a problem. It irw.? solved, how'ever, and sooner
than might have been expected. He gave a mighty hit — a
hit that sent her (the cricket ball) spinning into the hedge at
the bottom of the ground — a hit of which any body else
would have made three even at single wicket ; and, setting
out on a leisurely long- trot, contrived to get home, without
much inconvenience, just before the panting King arrived at
his ground. In his next attempt at running, he was not so
fortunate; his antagonist reached the wicket whilst he was
still in mid-career, so that his innings was over, and Mr. King
Harwood had to go in against one.

Alas I he found it one too many 1 At the very second ball
he made a hit — his first hit — and unluckily a hit up, and
Stephen caught him out by the mere exertion of lifting his
right arm ; so that the match was won at a single innings,
the account standing thus : —

King Harwood, first innings - - 0

Ditto second innings - - 0

Stephen Lane, first innings - -1

It would have been difficult to give the scorers on both
sides less trouble.

Stephen was charmed with his success, laughing like a
child for very glee, tossing the ball into the air, and enjoying
his triumph with unrestrained delight, until his antagonist,
who had borne his defeat with much equanimity, approached
him with the amount of his bet; it then seemed to strike him
suddenly that Mr. Harwood was a gentleman, and poor, and
that thirty pounds was too much for him to lose.

No, no, sir,’' said Stephen, gently putting aside the
offered notes ; all’s right now ; we’ve had our frolic out,
and it's over. 'Twas foolish enough, at the best, in an old

KING HARWOOD. 57

man like me, and so my dame will say ; but as to playing for
money, that’s quite entirely out of the question/’

These notes are yours, Mr. Lane/' replied King Har-
wood gravely.

No such thing, man,” rejoined Stephen, more earnestly ;

I never play for money, except now and then a sixpenny
game at all-fours with Peter Jenkins there. 1 hate gambling.
We’ve all of us plenty to do with our bank-notes, without
wasting them in such tom-foolery. Put ’em up, man, do.
Keep ’em till we play the return match, and that won’t be in
a hurry, I promise you ; Pve had enough of the sport for one
while,” added Stephen, wiping his honest face, and preparing
to reassume his coat and waistcoat ; put up the notes, man,
can’t ye ! ”

As I said before, Mr. Lane, this money is yours. You
need not scruple taking it ; for though I am a poor man, I
do not owe a farthing in the world. The loss will occasion
me no inconvenience. 1 had merely put aside this sum to
pay Charles Wither the difference between my bay mare and
his chestnut horse ; and now I shall keep the mare ; and
perhaps, after all, she is the more useful roadster of the two.
You take the money.”

I’ll be hanged if I do ! ” exclaimed Stcjdien, struck with
sudden and unexpected respect by the frank avowal of
poverty, the good principles, and the good temper of this
speech. “ How can I } Wasn’t it my own rule, when I
gave this bit of ground to the cricketers, that nobody should
ever play in it for any stake, high or low ? A pretty thing it
would be if J, a reformer of forty years’ standing, should be
the first man to break a law of my own making I Besides,
’tis setting a bad example to these youngsters, and ought not
to be done — and sha’nt be done,” continued Stephen, waxing
positive. You’ve no notion what an obstinate old chap 1
can be ! Better let me have my own way.”

Provided you let me have mine. You say that you
cannot take these notes — 1 feel that I cannot keep them.
Suppose w’e make them over to your friend Caleb, to repair
his wardrobe } ”

Dang it, you are a real good fellow ! ” shouted Stephen in
an ecstasy, grasping King Harwood’s hand, and shaking it as
if he would shake it off'; a capital fellow ! a true-born

58

THE carpenter’s DAUGHTER.

Englishman ! and I beg your pardon from my soul for that
trick of the wig and all my flouting and fleering before and
since. You’ve taught me a lesson that I shan’t forget in a
hurry. Your heart’s in the right place; and when that’s the
case, why a little finery and nonsense signifies no more than
the patches upon Caleb’s jacket, or the spots on a bullock’s
hide, just skin-deep, and hardly that. I’ve a respect for you,
man ! and I beg your pardon over and over.” And again
and again he wrung King Harwood’s hand in his huge red
fist ;'whilst borne away by his honest fervency. King returned
the pressure and walked silently home, wondering a little at
his own gratification, for a chord had been struck in his
bosom that had seldom vibrated before, and the sensation was
as new as it was delightful.

The next morning little Gregory Lane made his appearance
at Warwick Terrace, mounted on Mr. Charles Wither’s beau-
tiful chestnut. ^

Grandfather sends his duty, sir,” said the smiling boy,
jumping down, and putting the bridle into King Harwood’s
hand, “ and says that you had your way yesterday, and that
he must have his to-day. He’s as quiet as a lamb,” added
the boy, already, like Harry lllount in Marmion, a sworn
horse-courser;” ‘‘and such a trotter I He’ll carry you
twelve miles an hour with ease.” And King Harwood
accepted the offering ; and Stephen and he were good friends
ever after.

THE CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER.

Op all living objects, children, out of doors, seem to me
the most interesting to a lover of nature. In a room, I
may, perhaps, be allowed to exercise my privilege as an old
maid, by confessing that they are in my eyes less engaging.
If well-l^haved, the poor little things seem constrained and
genes — if ill-conducted, the gene is transferred to the unfor-
tunate grown-up people, whom their noise distracts and their
questions interrupt. Within doors, in short, I am one of the
many persons who like children in their places, that is to say.

THE carpenter’s DAUGHTER. 59

in any place where I am not. But out of doors there is no
such limitation : from the gipsy urchins under a hedge, to the
little lords and ladies in a ducal demesne, they are charming
to look at, to watch, and to listen to. Dogs are less amusing,
flowers are less beautiful, trees themselves are less picturesque.

1 cannot even mention them witliout recalling to my mind
twenty groups or single figures, of which Gainsborough would
have made at once a picture and a story. The little aristo-
cratic-looking girl, for instance, of some five or six years old,
whom I used to see two years ago, every morning at breakfast-
time, tripping along the most romantic street in England
(the High Street in Oxford), attended, or escorted, it is
doubtful which, by a superb Newfoundland dog, curly and
black, carrying in his huge mouth her tiny workbag, or her
fairy parasol, and guarding with so true a fidelity his pretty
young lady, whilst she, on her part, queened it over her lordly
subject with such diverting gravity, seeming to guide him
whilst he guided her — led, whilst she thought herself
leading, and finally deposited at her daily school, with as
much regularity as the same sagacious quadruped would have
displayed in carrying his master’s glove, or fetching a stick
out of the water. How I should like to see a portrait of that
fair demure elegant child, with her full short frock, her
frilled trousers, and her blue kid shoes, threading her way, by
the aid of her sable attendant, through the many small impe-
diments of the crowded streets of Oxford !

Or the pretty scene of childish distress which I saw last
winter on my way to East Court, — a distress which told its
own story as completely as the jneture of the broken pitcher !
Driving rapidly along the beautiful road from Eversley Bridge
to Finchamstead, up hill and down ; on the one side a wide
shelving bank, dotted with fine old oaks and beeches, inter-
mingled with thorn and birch, and magnificent holly, and
edging into Mr. Palmer’s forest- like woods; on the other, an
open hilly country, studded with large single trees. In the
midst of this landscape, ricn and lovely even in winter, in the
very middle of the road, stood two poor cottage children,
a year or two younger than the damsel of Oxford ; a large
basket dangling from the hand of one of them, and a heap of
barley-meal - — the barley-meal that should have been in the
basket — the week’s dinner of the pig, scattered in the dirt at

60

THE CAUPENTER’s DAIGHTER.

their feet. Poor little dears, how they cried ! They could
not have told their story, had not their story told itself ; —
they had been carrying the basket between them, and some-
how it had slipped. A shilling remedied that disaster, and
sent away all parties smiling and content.

Then again, this very afternoon, the squabbles of those
ragged urchins at cricket on the common — a disputed point
of out or not out ? The eight-year-old boy who will not
leave his wicket ; the seven and nine-year-old imps who are
trying to force him from his post ; the wrangling partisans of
all ages, from ten downwards, the two contending sidasy who
are brawling for victory ; the grave, ragged umpire, a lad of
twelve, with a stick under his arm, who is solemnly listening
to the cause ; and the younger and less interested spectators,
some just breeched, and others still condemned to the igno-
minious petticoat, who are silting on the bank, and wondering
which party will carry the day !

What can be prettier than this, unless it be the fellow-
group of girls — sisters, I presume, to the boys — who are
laughing and screaming round the great oak ; then darting to
and fro, in a game compounded of hide-and-seek and base-
ball. Now tossing the ball high, high amidst the branches ;
now flinging it low along the common, bowling, as it were,
almost within reach of the cricketers ; now pursuing, now
retreating, running, jumping, shouting, bawling — almost
shrieking with ecstasy ; whilst one sunburnt black-eyed gipsy
throws forth her laughing face from behind the trunk of the
old oak, and then flings a newer and a gayer ball — fortunate
purchase of some hoarded sixpence — amongst her admiring
playmates. Happy, happy children I that one hour of inno-
cent enjoyment is worth an age I

It was, perhaps, my love of picturesque children that first
attracted my attention towards a little maiden of some six or
seven years old, whom I used to meet, sometimes going to
^hool, and sometimes returning from it, during a casual resi-
deu^ of a week or two some fifteen years ago in our good town
of Helford. It was a very complete specimen of childish
beauty ; what would be called a picture of a child, — the very
study €or a painter; with the round, fair, rosy face, coloured
like the apple-blossom ; the large, bright, open blue eyes ; the
|K|oad white forehead, shaded by brown, clustering curls, and

THE carpenter’s DAUGHTER.

61

the lips scarlet as winter berries. But it was the expression
of that blooming countenance which formed its principal
charm ; every look was a smile, and a smile which had in it
as much of sweetness as of gaiety. She seemed, and she was,
tlie happiest and the most affectionate of created beings. Her
dress was singularly becoming. A little straw bonnet, of a
shape calculated not to conceal, but to display the young pretty
face, and a full short frock of gentianella blue, which served,
by its brilliant yet contrasted colouring, to enhance the bright-
ness of that brightest complexion. Tripping along to school
with her neat covered basket in her chubby hand, the little
lass was perfect.

I could not help looking and admiring, and stopping to look ;
and the pretty child stopped too, and dropped her little curtsy ;
and then 1 spoke, and then she spoke, — for she was too inno-
cent, too unfearing, too modest to be shy ; so that Susy and I
soon became acquainted ; and in a very few days the acquaint-
anceship was extended to a fine open-countenanced man, and
a sweet-looking and intelligent young woman, Susan’s father
and mother, — one or other of whom used to come almost
every evening to meet their darling on her return from school ;
for she was an only one, — the sole offspring of a marriage of
love, which was, 1 believe, reckoned unfortunate by everybody
except the parties concerned : they felt and knew that they
were happy.

I soon learnt their simple history. Thomas Jervis, the only
son of a rich carpenter, had been attached, almost from child-
hood, to his fair neighbour, Mary Price, the daughter of a
haberdasher in a great way of business, who lived in the same
street. The carpenter, a plodding, frugal artisan of the old
school, who trusted to indefatigable industry and undeviating
sobriety for getting on in life, had an instinctive mistrust of
the more dashing and speculative tradesman, and even, in the
height of his prosperity, looked with cold and doubtful eyes
on his son's engagement, Mr. Price’s circumstances, howev^
seemed, and at the time were, so flourishing — his offers so
liberal, and his daughter's character so excellent, that to refuse
his consent would have been an unwarrantable stretch of au-
thority. All that our prudent carpenter could do was, to delay
the union, in hopes that something might still occur to break
it off; and when, ten days before the time finally fixed for the

62

THE carpenter's DAUGHTER.

marriage, the result of an unsuccessful speculation placed Mr.
Price’s name in the Gazette, most heartily did he congratulate
himself on the foresight which, as he hoped, had saved him
from the calamity of a portionless daughter-in-law. He had,
however, miscalculated the strength of his son’s affection for
poor Mary, as well as the firm principle of honour which re-
garded their long and every-way sanctioned engagement as a
bond little less sacred than wedlock itself; and on Mr. Price's
dying, within a very few months, of that death which, although
not included in the bills of mortality, is yet but too truly
recognised by the popular phrase, a broken heart, Thomas
Jervis, after vainly trying every mode of appeal to his obdu-
rate father, married the orphan girl — in the desperate hope,
that the step being once taken, and past all remedy, an only
child would find forgiveness for an offence attencled by so
many extenuating circumstances.

But here, too, Thomas, in his turn, miscalculated the invin-
cible obstinacy of his father’s character. He ordered his son
from his house and his presence, dismissed him from his em-
ployment, forbade his very name to be mentioned in his
hearing, and, up to the time at which our story begins,
comported himself exactly as if he never had had a child.

Thomas, a dutiful, affectionate son, felt severely the depri-
vation of his father's affection, and Mary felt for her Thomas ;
but, so far as regarded their worldly concerns, almost

afraid to say how little they regretted their changed prospects.
Young, healthy, active, wrapt up in each other and in their
lovely little girl, they found small difficulty and no hardship
in earning — he by his trade, at which he was so good a work-
man as always to command high wages, and she by needle-
work— sufficient to supply their humble wants ; and when the
kindness of Walter Price, Mary's brother, who had again
opened a shop in the town, enabled them to send their little
Susy to a school of a better order than their own funds would
iftve permitted, their utmost ambition seemed gratified.

So far was speedily made known to me. I discovered also
that Mrs. Jervis possessed, in a remarkable degree, the rare
quality called taste — a faculty which does really appear to be
idmost intuitive in some minds, let metaphysicians laugh as
they may; and the ladies of Belford, delighted to find an
opportunity of at once exercising their benevolence, and pro-

THE carpenter’s DAUGHTER.

63

curing exquisitely-fancied caps and bonnets at half the cost
which they had been accustomed to pay to the fine yet vulgar
milliner who had hitherio ruled despotically over the fashions
of the place, did not fail to rescue their new and interesting
protegee from the drudgery of sewing white seam, and of
poring over stitching and button-holes.

For some years, all prospered in their little household.
Susy grew in stature and in beauty, retaining the same look
of intelligence and sweetness which Itad in her early child-
hood fascinated all beholders. She ran some risk of being
spoilt, (only that, luckily, she was of the grateful, unselfish,
affectionate nature which seems unspoilable,) by the admir^
ation of Mrs. Jervis’s customers, who, whenever she took home
their work, would send for the pretty Susan into the parlour,
and give her fruit and sweetmeats, or whatever cates might
be likely to please a childish appetite ; which, it was observed,
she contrived, whenever she could do so without offence, to
carry home to her mother, whose health, always delicate, had
lately appeared more than usually precarious. Even her stern
grandfather, now become a master-builder, and one of the
richest tradesmen in the town, bad been remarked to look
long and wistfully on the lovely little girl, as, holding by her
father’s hand, she tripped lightly to church, although, on that
father himself, he never deigned to cast a glance ; so that the
more acute denizens of Belford used to prognosticate that,
although Thomas was disinherited, Mr. Jervis’s property
would not go out of the family.

So matters continued awhile. Susan was eleven years old,
when a stunning and unexpected blow fell upon them all.
Walter Price, her kind uncle, who had hitherto seemed as
prudent as he was prosperous, became involved in the stoppage
of a great Glasgow house, and was obliged to leave the town ;
whilst her father, having unfortunately accepted bills drawn
by him, under an assurance that they should be provided for
long before they became due, was thrown into prison for tlH
amount. There was, indeed, a distapt hope that the affairs
of the Glasgow house might come round, or, at least, that
Walter Price’s concerns might be disentangled from theirs ;
and, for this purpose, his presence, as a man full of activity
and intelligence, was absolutely necessary in Scotland; but
this prospect was precarious and distant. In the mean time.

64i

THE carpenter’s DAUGHTER.

Thomas Jervis lay lingering in prison, his creditor relying
avowedly on the chance that a rich father could not, for
shame, allow his son to perish there ; whilst Mary, sick,
helpless, and desolate, was too broken-spirited to venture an
applicalion to a quarter, from whence any slight hope that
she might otherwise have entertair.ed was entirely banished
by the recollection that the penalty had been incurred through
a relation of her own.

‘‘Why should I go to him?" said poor Mary to herself,
when referred by Mr. Barnard, her husband's creditor, to her
wealthy father-in-law — “ why trouble him ? He will never
pay my brother's debt : he would only turn me from his door,
and, perhaps, speak of Walter and Thomas in a way that
would break my heart." And, with her little daughter in
her hand, she walked slowly back to a small room that she
had hired near the gaol, and sat down sadly and heavily to
the daily diminishing millinery work, which was now the
only resource of the once happy family.

In the afternoon of the same day, as old Mr. Jervis was
seated in a little summer-house at the end of his neat garden,
gravely smoking liis pipe over a tumbler of spirits and water,
defiling the delicious odour of his honeysuckles and sweet-
briars by the two most atrocious smells on this earth — the
fumes of tobacco* and of gin — his meditations, probably
none of the most agreeable, were interrupted, first by a modest
single knock at the front-door, (which, the intermediate doors
being open, he heard distinctly,) then by a gentle parley, and,
lastly, by his old housekeeper's advance up the gravel walk,
followed by a very young girl, who approached him hastily
yet tremblingly, caught his rough hand with her little one,
lifted up a sweet face, where smiles seemed breaking through
her tears, and, in an attitude between standing and kneeling
— an attitude of deep reverence — faltered, in a low, broken
voice, one low, broken word — “ Grandfather ! " ^

• “ How came this child here ? " exclaimed Mr. Jervis, en-
deavouring to disengage the hand which Susan bad now secured
within both hers — “ how dared you let her in, Norris, when
you knew my orders respecting the whole family ? '*

» Whenever one thinks of Sir Walter Raleigh as the importer of this disgusting
and noisome weeJ, it tends greatly to mitigate the horror which one feels tor his
unjust execution. Had he been only beheaded as the inventor of smoking, ail would
have been right.

THE CARPENTER S DAUGHTER;

65

How dared 1 let her in?” returned the housekeeper —
how could 1 help it ? Don’t we all know that there is not
a single house in the town where little Susan (Heaven bless
her dear face!) is not welcome I Don’t the very gaolers let
her into the prison before hours and after hours? And don’t
the sheriff himself, for as strict as he is said to be, sanction
it? Speak to your grandfather, Susy love — don’t be dashed.”*
And, with this encouraging exhortation, the kind-hearted
housekeeper retired.

Susan continued clasping he^ grandfather’s hand, and lean-
ing her face over it as if to conceal the tears which poured
down her cheeks like rain.

''What do you want with me, child ?” at length inter-
rupted Mr. Jervis in a stern voice. " What brought you
here?”

" Oh, grandfather ! Poor father’s in prison !”

" I did not put him there,” observed Mr. Jervis, coldly -
" you must go to Mr. Barnard on that affair.”

" Mother did go to him this morning,” replied Susan,

and he told her that she must apply to you ”

" Well!” exclaimed the grandfather, impatiently,

" But she said she dared not, angry as you were with her
— more especially as it is through uncle Walter’s misfortune
that all this misery has happened. Mother dared not come to
you.”

“ She was right enough there,” returned Mr. Jervis. " So
she sent you ?”

" No, indeed ; she knows nothing of my coming. She
sent me to carry home a cap to Mrs. Taylor, who lives in the
next street, and as I was passing the door it came into my
head to knock — and then Mrs. Norris brought me here — Oh,
.grandfather! I hope I have not done wrong! I hope you
fare not angry ! — But if you were to see how sad and pale
jpoor fath^ looks in that dismal prison — and poor mother,
how sick and ill she is, how her hand trembles wlien she tries
to work — Oh, grandfather ! if you could but see them, you
would not wonder at my boldness.”

All this comes of trusting to a* speculating knave like

Dashed — frightoned.
iu)t confined t

• fnghtoned. 1 believe this expres'^ion, though frequently use<l there,
• 1 , * to ISei'kshirc. It is one of the pretty pr(>Viii(‘i»l phra^os hy jvbich

contrived to give a cltarining rustic grace to the early letters of

P

6ti

THE carpenter’s DAUGHTER.

Walter Price!” observed Mr. Jervis, rather as a soliloquy
than to the child, who, however, heard and replied to the
remark.

He was very kind to me, was uncle Walter ! He put me
to school, to learn reading and writing, and cyphering, and all
sorts of needle- work — not a charity-school, because he wished
me to be amongst decent children, and not to learn bad ways.
And he has written to offer to come to prison himself, if
father wishes it — only — I don’t understand about business
— but even Mr. Barnard says^hat the best chance of recover-
ing the money is his remaining at liberty ; and indeed, indeed,
grandfather, my uncle Walter is not so wicked as you think
for — indeed he is not.”

“This child is grateful!” was the thought that passed
through her grandfather’s mind ; but he did not give it utter-
ance. He, however, drew her closer to him, and seated her
in the summer-house at his side. “ So you can read and
write, and keep accounts, and do all sorts of needle-work, can
you, my little maid ? And you can run of errands, doubtless,
and are handy about a house ? Should you like to live with
me and Norris, and make my shirts, and read the newspaper
to me of ail evening, and learn to make puddings and pies,
and be my own little Susan ? Eh ? — Should you like
tbis.J»”

“Oh, grandfather!” exclaimed Susan, enchanted.

“ And water the flowers,” pursued Mr. Jervis, and root
out the weeds, and gather the beau-pols? Is not this a nice
garden, Susy ? ”

“ Oh, beautiful ! dear grandfather, beautiful 1”

“ And you would like to live with me in this pretty house
and this beautiful garden — should you, Susy ? ”

“ Oh, yes, dear grandfather ! ”

“ And never wisli to leave me.^”

“ Oh, never ! never ! ”

“ Nor to see the dismal gaol again — the] dismal, dreary
gaol ? ”

“Never! — but father is to live here too?” inquired
Susan, interrupting herself — ** father and mother ? ”

“No! ’’replied her grandfather — “ neither of them. It
was you whom I asked to live here with me. 1 have nothing
to do with them, and you must choose between us.*

THE carpenter's PAUGHTER, 67

« They not live here ! I to leave my father and my
mother — my own dear mother, and she so sick I my own
dear father, and he in a gaol ! Oh, grandfather ! you cannot
mean it — you cannot be so cruel ! "

“ There is no cruelty in tlie matter, Susan. I give you the
offer of leaving your parents, and living with me ; but I do
not compel you to accept it. You are an intelliient little girl,
and perfectly capable of choosing for yourself. But I beg
y9U to take notice that, by remaining with them, you will not
only share, but increase their poverty ; whereas, with me, you
will not only enjoy every comfort yourself, but relieve them
from the burden of your support.”

“It is not a burden,” replied Susan, firmly ; — “I know
that, young and weak, and ignorant as I am now, I am yet of
some use to my dear mother — and of some comfort to my
dear father ; and every day I shall grow older and stronger,
and more able to be a help to them both. And to leave them !
to live here in plenty, whilst they were starving ! to be gather-
ing posies, whilst they were in prison ! Oh, grandfather, 1
should die of the very thought. Thank you for your ofF-r,"
continued she, rising, and.<lropping her little curtsey — “ but
my choice is made. Good evening, grandfather ! ”

“ Don’t be in such a hurry, Susy,” rejoined her grand-
father, shaking the ashes from his pipe, taking the last sip of
his gin and water, and then proceeding to adjust his hat and
wig — “ Don’t be in such a hurry : yon ami 1 shan’t part so
easily. You’re a <lear little girl, and since you won’t stay
with me, 1 must e’en go with you. The father and mother
who brought up such a child must be worth bringing
home. So, with your good leave. Miss Susan, we'll go and
fetch them.”

And, in the midst of Susy’s rapturous thanks, her kisses
and her tears, out they sa’lied ; and the money was paid, and
the debtoi^released, and established with his overjoyed wife in
the best room of Mr. Jervis’s ])retty hahitit'on, to the un-
speakable gratitude of the whole party, and the ecstatic delight
of the Caiipenter’s Dauguier.

68

SUPPERS AND BALLS.

SUPPERS AND BALLS;

OR, TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY.

Thirty years ago Belford was a remarkably sociable place,
just of the right size for pleasant visiting. In very small
towns people see each other too closely, and fall almost uncon-
sciously into the habit of prying and peeping into their neigh-
bours’ concerns, and gossiping and tittle-tattling, and squab-
bling, and jostling, as if the world were not wide enough for
them ; and such is the fact — their world is too narrow. In
very great towns, on the other hand, folks see too little of one
another, and do not care a straw for their near dwellers.
Large provincial towns, tl^e overgrown capitals of overgrown
counties, are almost as bad in that respect as London, where
next-door neighbours may come into the world, or go out of
it — l)e born, or married, or buried, without one’s hearing a
word of the birth, or the wedding, or the funeral, until one
reads the intelligence, two or three days afterwards, in the
newspapers.

Now in Belford, thirty years ago, whilst you were perfectly
secure from any such cold and chilling indifference to your well
or ill being, so you might reckon on being tolerably free from
the more annoying impertinence of a minute and scrutinising
curiosity. The place was too large for the one evil, and too
small for the other : almost every family of the class commonly
called genteel, visited and was visited by the rest of their
order ; and not being a manufacturing town, and the trade,
Although flourishing, being limited to the supply of the inha-
bitantg, and of the wealthy and populous neighbourhood, the
distinction was more easily drawm than is usual ir^ this com-
mercial country ; and tlie gentry of Belford might be com-
prised in the members of the three learned professions, the
principal partners in the banks, one or two of the most thriv-.
ing brewers, and that nunterous body of idle persons who live
upon their means, and whom the political economists are
pleased, somewhat uncivilly, to denominate the unproductive
classes.*^

SUPPERS AN1> BALLS.

G9

Another favourahle circumstance in the then state of the
Eelford society, was the circumstance of nobody's being over
rich. Some had, to be sure, larger incomes than others ; but
there was no great monied man, no borough Croesus, to look
down up?n his poorer neighbours, and insult them by upstart
pride, or pompous condescension. All met upon the table-
land of gentility, and the few who were more affluent con-
trived, almost without exception, to disarm envy by using
their greater power for the gracious purpose of diffusing plea-
sure and promoting sociability. And certainly a more sociable
set of people could not easily have been found.

To say nothing at present of the professional gentlemen, or
that exceedingly preponderating part of the female interest*’
(to borrow another cant phrase of the day), the widows anti
single ladies, the genteel inhabitants of Belford were as diver-
sified as heart could desire. We bad two naval captains ; the
one, a bold, dashing open-hearted tar, who, after remaining
two or three years unemployed, fuming, and chafing, and
grumbling over his want of interest, got a ship, and died, after
a brilliant career, at the summit of fame and fortune ; the
other, a steady, business-like person, who did bis duty as an
English sailor always does, but who, wanting the art of making
opportunities, the uncalculating bravery, the happy rashness,
which seems essential to ^liat branch of the service, lived
obscurely, and died neglected. His wife had in her tempera-
ment the fire that her husband wanted. She was a virago,
and would, beyond all doubt, have thought nothing of en-
countering a whole fleet, whether friends or foes ; whilst Sir
Charles’s lady (for our more fortunate officer had already won
that distinction) was a poor, shrinking, delicate, weak-spirited
little woman, who would have fainted at the sound of a signal-
gun, and have died of a royal salute. Both captains were
great acquisitions to the society, especially Sir Charles, who,
though he would have preferred a battle every day, had no
objection, in default of that diversion, to a party of any sort,
— dance, supper, dinner, rout, nothing came amiss to him,
although it must be confessed that he liked the noisiest best.

Then arrived a young Irish gentleman, who, having, run
away with an heiress and spent as much of her fortune as the
Court of Chancery would permit, came to Belford to retrench,
and to wait for a place, which, through some exceedingly in-
F 3

70

SUPPERS AND BAIJiS.

direct and remote channel of interest, he expected to procure,
and for which he pretended to prepare, and doubtless thought
that he was preparing himself, by the study of Cocker’s
Arithmetic. He study Cocker ! Oh, dear me ! all that he
was ever likely to know of pounds, shillings and pence, was
the art of spending them, in which he was a proficient. A
gay, agreeable, careless creature he was ; and so was his
pretty wife. They had mariitd so young, that whilst still
looking like boy and girl, a tribe of boys and girls were rising
round them, all alike gay and kind, and merry and thought-
less. They were the very persons to promote ])arties, since
without them they could not live.

Then came a Scotch colonel in the Company’s service, with
an elegant wife and a pretty daugiiter. A mighty man for
dinnering and suppering was he ! 1 question if Ude be a

better cook. I am quite sure that he does not think so much
of his own talents in tl)at way as our colonel did. He never
heard of a turtle within twenty miles but he offered to dress
it, and once nearly broke his neck in descending into a subter-
ranean kitchen to superintend the haunches at a mayor’s feast.
An excellent person was he, and a jovial, and a perfect gentle-
man even in bis white apron.

Then came two graver pairs : a young clergyman, who had
married a rich and veiy charming widow, and seemed to think
it right to appear staid and demure, to conceal the half-a-dozen
years by which she had the disadvantage of him ; and a widow
and her son, a young man just from college, and intended for
the diplomatic line, f^or which, if to be silent, solemn, safe and
dull, be a recommendation, he was very eminently gifted.

Then we had my friend the talking gentleman and his pretty
wife ; then a half-pay major, very prosy ; then a retired com-
missary, very dozy ; then a papa with three daughters; then
a mamma with two sons ; then a family too large to count ;
and then some score of respectable and agreeable ladies and
gentlemen, the chorus of the opera, the figurantes of the ballet,
who may fairly be summed up in one general eulogy as very
good sort of people in their way.

This catalogue ruisonnt of the Belford gentlefolks does not
sound very grand or very intellectual, or very much to boast
about ; but yet the component parts, the elements of society,
mingled well together, and the result was almost as pleasant

SUPPERS AND BALLS.

71

as the coloners inimitable punch — sweet and spirited, with a
little acid, and not too much water — or as Sir Charleses cham-
pagne, sparkling and effervescent, and completely up as his
own brilliant spirits and animated character. 1 was a girl at
the time — a very young girl, and, what is more to the pur-
pose, a very shy one, so that I mixed in none of the gaieties;
but, speaking from observation and recollection, I can fairly
say that 1 never saw any society more innocently cheerful, or
more completely free from any other restraints than those of
good breeding and propriety. The gentlemen had frequent
dinner-parties, and the young people occasional dances at such
houses where the rooms were large enough ; but the pleasantest
meetings were social suppers, preceded by a quiet rubber and
a noisy round game, succeeded by one or two national airs,
very sweetly sung by the Irishman’s wife and the colonel’s
daughter, enlivened by comic songs by the talking gentleman —
a genius in that line, and interspersed with more of fun and
jest, and jollity, of jokes that nobody could explain, and of
laughter no one knew why, than 1 ever have happened to wit-
ness amongst any assemblage of well-behaved and well-educated
people. One does sometimes meet with enjoyment amongst a
set of country lads and lasses ; but to sec ladies and gentlemen
merry as well as wise, is, in these utilitarian days, somewhat
uncommon.

N.B. If I were asked whether this happy state of things
still continues, I sliould find the question difficult to answer.
Belford is thirty years older since the joyous Christmas holi-
days which have left so pleasant an impression on my memory,
and more than thirty years larger, since it has increased and
multiplied, not after the staid and sober fashion of an English
country town, but in the ratio of an American city — Cin-
cinnati for instance, or any other settlement of the West,
which was the wilderness yesterday, and starts into a metro-
polis to-morrow. Moreover, 1 doubt if the habits of the
middle ranks in England be as sociable now as they were
then. The manners immortalised by Miss Austen are rapidly
passing away. There is more of finery, more of literature,
more of accomplishment, and, above all, more of pretension,
than there used to be. Scandal vanished with the tea-table ;
gossiping is out of fashion ; jokes are gone by ; conversation
is critical, analytical, political— anything but personaL The
F 4

72

SUPPERS AND BALLS.

world is a wise world, and a learned world, and a ’scientific
world ; but not half so merry a world as it was tliirty years a^o.
And then, courteous reader, 1 too am thirty years older, which
must be taken into the account ; for if those very supper-
parties, those identical Christmas holidays, which I enjoyed so
much at fourteen, were to return attain bodily, with all their
‘Equips and cranks, and jollity," it is just a tnousand to one
but they found the woman of forty-four too grave for them,
and longing for the quiet and decorum of the elegant ron-
versaz'ione and select. dinners of 1834: of such contradictions
is this human nature of ours mingled and composed !

To return once more to Belford, as 1 remember it at bonny
fifteen.

The public amusements of the town were sober enough.
Ten years before, clubs had flourished ; and tlie heads of
houses had met once a week at the King’s Arms for the pur-
pose of whist-playing ; whilst the ladies, thus deserted by their
liege lords, had esiabiished a meeting at each other’s mansions
on club-nights, from which, by way of retaliation, the whole
male sex was banished except Mr. Singleton. At the time,
however, of which I speak, these clubs had passed away ; and
the public diversions were limited to an annual visit from a
respectable company of actors, the theatre being, as is usual in
country places, very well conducted and exceedingly ill at-
tended ; to biennial concerts, equally good in their kind, and
rather better patronised ; and to almost weekly incursions from
itinerant lecturers on all the arts and sciences, and from pro-
digies of every kind, whether three-year-old fiddlers or learned
dogs.

There were also balls in their spacious and commodious
town-hall, which seemed as much built for the purposes of
dancing as for that of trying criminals. Public balls there
were in abundance ; but at the time of which I speak they
were of less advantage to the good town of Belford than any
one, looking at the number of good houses and of pretty young
women, could well have thought possible. Never was a place
in which the strange prejudice, the invisible but strongly felt
line of demarcation, which all through England divides the
county families from the townspeople, was more rigidly sus-
tained. To live in that respectable borough was in general a
recognised exclusion from the society of the neighbourhood ;

SUPPERS AND BALLS.

73

and if by chance any one so high in wealth, or station, or
talent, or connection, as to set the proscription at defiance,
hajjpened to settle within the obnoxious walls, why then the
country circle took possession of the new-comer, and he was,
although living in the very heart of the borough, claimed and
considered as a country family, and seized by the county and
relinquished by the town accordingly. The thing is too absurd
to reason upon ; but so it was, and so to a great degree it still
continues all over England.

A public ball-room is, perhaps, of all others the scene where
this feeling is most certain to display itself ; and the Belford
balls had, from time immemorial, been an arena where the
conflicting vanities of the town and county belles had come
into collision. A circumstance that had happened some twenty
years before the time of which 1 write (that is to say, nearly
fifty years ago) had, however, ended in the total banishment
of the Belford beauties from the field of battle.

Everybody remembers the attack made upon George 111.
by an unfortunate mad woman of the name of Margaret
Nicholson ; the quantity of addresses sent up in consequence
from ail parts of the kingdom ; and the number of foolish
persons who accompanied the deputations anil accepted the
honour of knighthood on the occasion. Amongst these simple
personages were two aldermen of Belford, a brewer, and a
banker, whose daughters, emulous of their fathers’ wisdom,
were rash enough at the next monthly assembly to take place
above the daughters of the high sheritf, and the county mem-
bers, and half the landed gentry of the neighbourhood. The
young country ladies behaved with great discretion ; they put
a stop to the remonstrances of their partners, walked in a mass
to the other end of the room, formed their own set there, and
left the daughter's of the new-made knights to go down the
dance by themselves. But the result was the establishment of
subscription balls, under the direction of a county committee,
and a complete exclusion, for the time at least, of the female
inhabitants of Belford.

By some means or other the gentlemen contrived to creep in
as partners, though not much to their owm comfort or advan-
tage. The county balls at Belford were amongst the scenes of
King Harwood’s most notable disappointments; and a story
was in circulation (for the truth of which, however, I will not

7^ THK OLD KMIOBIS.

venture to vouch) that our young diplomatist, who, from the
day he first entered Oxford to in which he left it, had
been a tuft-hunter by profession, was actually so deceived, by
her being on a visit to a noble family in the neighbourhood,
as to request the hand of a young lady for the two first dances,
who turned out to be nothing bettir than the sister of the
curate of his own parish, who came the very next week to
keep her brother’s house, a house of six rooms little better than
closets, in B.lford, who had not the apology of beauty, and
whose surname was Brown !

It follows from this state of things, that in tracing the
annals of beauty in the Belford ball-room, in our subsequent
pages, our portraits must be chiefly drawn from the young
ladies of the neighbourhood, the fair damsels of the town (for
of many a fair damsel the good town could boast) having been
driven to other scenes for the display of their attractions. I
am not sure that they lost many admirers by the exclusion ;
for a pretty girl is a pretty girl, even if she chance to live
amongst houses and brick-walls, instead of trees and green
fields, — and somehow’ or other, young men will make the dis-
covery. And a pair of bright eyes may do as much execution
at a concert, or a lecture, or a horticultural show, or even —
with ail reverence be it spoken — at a missionary meeting, as
if threading the mazes of the old-fashioned country -dance, or
d<w-d-</o#-ing in the more fashionable quadrille. Nothing
breaks down artificial distinctions so certainly as beauty ; and
80^ or 1 mistake, our Belford lasses have found.

THE OLD EMIGRE.

The town of Belford is, like many of our ancient English
boroughs, full of monastic remains, which give an air at once
venerable and picturesque to the old irregular streets and
suburban gardens of the place. Besides the great ruins of the
abbey exten»Iing over many acres, and the deep and beautiful
arched gateway forming part of an old romantic house which,
although erected many centuries later, is now falling to decay,
whilst the massive structure of the arch remains firm and

THE OLD EMIGBK.

75

vigorous as a rock*, — besides that graceful and shadowy gate-
way which, with the majestic elms that front it, has formed
the subject of almost as many paintings and drawings as Dur-
ham Cathedral — besides these venerable remains every corner
of the town presents some relic of ** hoar antiquity” to the eye
of the curious traveller. Here, a stack of chimneys, — there,
a bit of garden wall, — in this place, a stone porch with the
date 1472, — in that, an oakcn-raftered granary of still earlier
erection — all give token of the solid architecture of the days
when the mitred abbots of the great monastery of Belford,
where princes have lodged and kings been buried (as witness
the stone cofKns not long since disinterred in the ruined church
of the Abbey), were the munificent patrons and absolute suze-
rains of the good burghers and their borough town. Even
where no such traces exist, the very names of the different
localities indicate their connection with these powerful Bene-
dictines. Friar Street, Minster Street, the Oriel, the Holy
Brook, the Abbey Mills, — names which have long outlived,
not only the individual monks, but even the proud foundation
by which they were bestowed — still attest the extensive influ-
ence of the lord abbot. If it be true, according to Lord Byron,
that words are things,” still more truly may we say that
names are histories.

Nor were these remains confined to the town. The granges
and parks belonging to the wide-spreading abbey lands, their
manors, and fisheries, extended for many miles around ; and
more than one yeoman, in the remoter villages, claims to be
descended of the tenants who held farms under the church ;
whilst many a mouldering j)aichment indicates the assumption
of the abbey property by the crown, or its bestowal on some
favoured noble of the court. And amidst these relics of eccle-
siastical pomp and wealth, be it not forgotten that better things
were mingled, — almshouses for the old, hospitals for the sick,
and crosses and chapels at which the pilgrim or the wayfarer
might offer up his prayers. One of the latter, dedicated to

Our Ladye,” was singularly situated on the centre pier of
the old bridge at Upton, where, indeed, the original basement,
surmounted by a more modern dwelling-house, still continues.

* It was not, I believe, at tliis gatew.ay, but at one the very remains of which are
now swept away, that the alilmt and two of his monks were hanged at the time of
ttic Reformation ; a most eauseletis piece of cruelty, since no resistance was ofibred '

by the helpless Bcnediciiiies.

76 THE OliD EMIGRE.

By far the most beautiful ruin in Belford is, however, the
east end of an old Friary, situate at the entrance of the town
from the pleasant village of Upton above mentioned, from
which it is divided by about half a mile of green meadows
sloping down to the great river, with its long straggling bridge,
sliding, as it were, into an irregular street of cottages, trees,
and gardens, terminated by the old church, embosomed in
wood, and crowned by the great chalk-pit and the high range
of Oxforsbire hills.

The end of the old Friary forming the angle between two
of the streets of Belford, and being itself the last building of
the town, commands this pretty pastoral prospect It is placed
in about half an acre of ground, partly cultivated as a garden,
partly planted with old orchard trees, standing back both from
the street on the one side, and the road on the other, apart
and divided from every meaner building, except a small white
cottage, which is erected against the lower part, and which it
surmounts in all the pride of its venerable beauty, retaining
almost exactly that form of a pointed arch, to which the
groined roof was fitted ; almost, but not quite, since on one side
part of the stones are crumbling away into a picturesque irre-
gularity, whilst the other is overgrown by large masses of ivy,
and the snapdragon and the wallflower have contributed to
break the outline. The east window, however, is perfect —
as perfect as if finished yesterday. And the delicate tracery
of that window, the rich fretwork of its Gothic carving, clear
as point-lace, regular as the quaint cutting of an Indian fan,
have to me — especially when the summer sky is seen through
those fantastic mouldings, and the ash and elder saplings,
which have sprung from the fallen masses below, mingle their
fresh and vivid tints with the hoary apple-trees of the orchard,
and the fine mellow hue of the weather-stained gray stone —
a truer combination of that which the mind seeks in ruins, the
union of the beautiful and the sad, than any similar scene with
which I am acquainted, however aided by silence and solitude,
by majestic woods and mighty waters.

Perhaps the very absence of these romantic adjuncts, the
passing at once from the busy hum of men to this memorial of
past generations, may aid the impression ; or perhaps the
associations connected with the small cottage that leans against
it, and harmonises so well in form, and colour, and feeling

THE OLD EMIGRE.

77

with the general picture, may have more influence than can
belong merely to form and colour in producing the half-un-
conscious melancholy that steals over the thoughts.

Nothing could be less melancholy than my first recollections
of that dwelling, when, a happy school-girl at home for the
holidays, I used to open the small wicket, . and run up the
garden path, and enter the ever-open door to purchase Mrs.
Duval's famous brioches and marangles.

Mrs. Duval had not always lived in the cottage by the
Friarv. Fifteen years before, she had been a trim, black-
eyed maiden, the only daughter and heiress of old Anthony
Richards, an eminent confectioner in Queen Street. There
she had presided over turtle soup and tartlets, ices and jellies ;
in short, over the whole business of the counter, with much
discretion, her mother being dead, and Anthony keeping close
to his territory — the oven. With admirable discretion had
Miss Fanny Richards conducted the business of the shop —
smiling, civil, and attentive to every body, and yet contriving, —
in spite of her gay and pleasant manner, the evident light-
heartedness which danced in her sparkling eyes, and her airy
steps, and her arch yet innocent speech, a light-heartedness
which charmed even the gravest — to avoid any the slightest
approach to allurement or coquetry. The most practised re-
cruiting officer that ever lounged in a country town could not
strike up a flirtation with Fanny Richards ; nor could the
more genuine admiration of the raw boy just come from Eton,
and not yet gone to Oxford, extort the slenderest encourage-
ment from the prudent and right-minded maiden. She re-
turned their j)resents and laughed at their poetry, and had
raised for herself such a reputation for civility and propriety,
that when the French man-cook of a neighbouring nobleman,
an artiste of the first water, made his proposals, and her good
father, after a little John Bullish demur on the score of lan-
guage and country, was won, imitating the example related of
some of the old painters to bestow on him his daughter’s hand,
in reward of the consummate skill of his productions (a mag-
nificent Pate de Perigord is said to have been the chej-d' ceuvre
which gained the fair prize), not a family in the town or
neighbourhood but wished well to the young nymph of the
counter, and resolved to do everything that their protection
and patronage could compass for her advantage and comfort.

78

TBK OLD EMIGRE.

The excellent character and excellent confectionary of the
adroit and agreeable Frenchman completely justified Fanny's
choice ; and her fond father, from the hour that he chuckingly
iced her wedding-cake, and changed his old, homely, black
and white inscription of Anthony Richards, pastry-cook,"
which had whilom modestly surmounted the shop-window,
into a very grand and very illegible scroll, gold on a blue
ground, in the old English character (Arahesqur. the bride-
groom called it; indeed, if it had been Arabic, it could hardly
have been more unintelligible), of Anthony Riclnrds and
Louis Duval, man-cooks and restorers," which required the
contents of the aforesaid window to explain its meaning to
English eyes, — from that triumphant hour to the time of his
death, some three years afterwards, never once saw cause to
repent that he had entrusted his daughter’s fortune a»ul happi-
ness to a foreigner. So completely was his prejudice sur-
mounted, that when a boy was born, and it was proposed to
give him the name of his grandfather, the old man pnsitively
refused. Let him be such another Louis Duval as you have
been," said he, and I shall be satisfied."

All prospered in Queen-street, and all deserved to prosper.
From the noblemen and gentlemen at whose houses on days
of high festival Louis Duval officiated as chef de cuisitK:, down
to the urchins of the street, halfpenny customers whose object
it was to get most sweets for their money, all agreed that the
cookery and *the cakery, the souffles and the buns, were in-
imitable. Perhaps the ready and smiling civility, the free
and genuine kindness, which looked out and weighed a penny-
worth of sugar-plums with an attention as red and as good-
natured as that with which an order was taken for a winter
dessert, had something to do with this universal popularity.
Be that as it may, all prospered, and all deserved to prosper,
in Qi leen -street ; and, until the oM man died, it would have
been difficult, in the town or the country, to fix on a more
united or a happier family. That event, by bringing an
accession of property and power to Louis Duval, intro<luced
into his mind a spirit of speculation, an ambition (if one may
apply so grand a word to the projects of a confectioner), which
became as fatal to his fortunes as it has often proved to those
of greater men. He became weary of his paltry profits and
his provincial success — weary even of the want of competition

THE OLD EMIGRE.

79

for poor old Mrs. Thomas, the pastry-cook in the market-
place, an inert and lumpish personage of astounding dimen-
sions, whose fame, such as it was, rested on huge plum-cakes
almost as big round as herself, and little better than bread
with a few currants interspersed, wherewith, under the plea of
wholesomeness, poor children were crammed at school and at
home, — poor old Mrs. Thomas could never be regarded as
his rival ; — these motives, together with the wish to try a
wider field, and an unlucky sug^zestion from his old master the
earl, that he and his wife woulrl be the very persons for a
London hotel, induced him to call in his debts, dispose of his
house and business in Queen-street, embark in a large concern
in the West-end, and leave Belford altogether.

Th3 result of this measure may be easily anticipated.
Wholly unaccustomed to London, and to that very nice and
difficult undertaking, a great hotel, — and with a capital which,
though considerable in itself, was yet inadequate to a specula<^
tion of such magnitude, — poor Monsieur and Madame Duval
(for they had assumed all the Frenchifications i)0ssiblie on
setting up in the great city) w’ere tricked, and cheated, and
laughed at by her countrymen and by his, and in the course
of four years were completely ruined ; whilst he, who might
always have procured a decent livelihood by going about to
different houses as a professor of the culinary art (for though
Louis had lost every thing else, he had not, as he used to
observe, and it w'as a comfort to him, poor fellow ! lost his
professional reputation), caught cold by overheating himself
in cooking a great dinner, fell into a consumption, and died;
leaving his young wife and her little boy friendless and penni-
less in the wide world.

Under these miserable circumstances, poor Fanny naturally
returned to her native town, with some expectation, perhaps,
that the patrons and acquaintances of her father and her hus-
band might re-establish her in her old business, for which,
having been brought up in the trade, and having retained all
the receipts which had made their shop so celebrated, she was
peculiarly qualified. But, although surrounded by well-
wishers and persons ready to assist her to a certain small
extent, Mrs. Duval soon found how difficult it is for any one,
especially a woman, to obtain money without security, and
without any certainty of repayment. That she had failed

80

TU£ OLI) KMIGRK.

once was reason enouj^h to rentier people fearful that she mi"ht
fail ai^ain. Besides, her old rival, Mrs. Thomas, was also dead,
and had been succeeded by a Quaker couple, so alert, so in-
telligent, so accurately and delicately clean in all their looks,
and ways, and wares, that the very sight of their bright
counter, and its simple but tempting cates, gave their cus-
tomers an appetite. They were the fashion, too, unluckily.
Nothing could go down for luncheon in any family of gentility
bat Mrs. Purdy’s biscuits, and poor Mrs. Duval found her
more various and richer confectionary com[)aratively disre-
garded. The most that her friends could do for her was to
place her in the Friary Cottage, where, besides carrying on a
small trade with die few old customers who still adhered to
herself and her tartlets, she could have the advantage of letting
a small bedchamber and a pleasant little parlour to any lodger
desirous of uniting good air, and a close vicinity to a large
town, with a situation peculiarly secluded and romantic.

The first occupant of Mrs. Duval’s pleasant apartments was
a Catholic priest, an emig*u\ to wliorn they had a double re-
commendation, in his hostess’s knowledge of the French lan-
guage, of French habits, and French cookery (she being, as
he used to affirm, the only Englishwoman that ever made
drinkable coffee), and in the old associations of the precincts
piece of a cloister ’*) around which the venerable memorials
of the ancient faith still lingered even in decay. He might
have said, with Antonio, in one of the finest scenes ever con-
ceived by a poet’s imagination, that in v/hich the Echo answers
from the murdered woman’s grave, —

“ 1 lovo (tviP a»ic:rnt rn’in ;

We 11 'Pr lr»*a(l ujioii lltp:n liuf wp net
Oiir f( >t np'nj >‘Ojne revfima history ;

And, uestioidess, hprp ii» ttiis nur-n court
( Wh' lies lo the injuiii s

Or»r ly u’p.itlwr; *0 do l.c inti'rr’d,

I five the church -o well, and k i' e ffi I irirely to’t, '

They thfiiiglit it shoiil I have caiifipif'd their hone*

'i'iil dofiiMxil.iy : hut all thm/js have f,he:r citfl :

Cluirclii's and cihps (which have oiseascs lil.c to men)

Must have like death that wc Im' n.”

Wna-iTKa-—- Duchess of Malfy.

If such were the inducements that first attracted M. TAbbc
Villaret, he soon found others in the pleasing manners and
amiable temper of Mrs Duval, whose cheerfulness and kind-
ness of heart had not abandoned her in her change of fortune ;

THE OLD EMIGBE.

81

and in the attaching character of her charming little boy, who
— singularly tall of his age, and framed with the mixture of
strength and delicacy, of pliancy and uprightness, which
characterises the ideal forms of the Greek maibles, and the
reality of the human figure amongst the abjiigines of North
America^i with a countenance dark, sallow, and colourless,
but sparkling with expression as that of the natives of the South
of Europe, the eyes all laughter, the smile all intelligence, —
was as unlike in mind as in person to the chubby, ruddy,
noisy urchins by whom he was surrounded. Quick, gentle,
docile, and graceful to a point of elegance rarely seen even
amongst the most carefully-educated children, he might have
been placed at court as the page of a fair young queen, and
have been the plaything and pet of the maids of honour. The
pet of M. TAbbe he became almost as soon as he saw him ;
and to that pleasant distinction was speedily added the in-
valuable advantage of being his pupil.

L’Abbe Villaret had been a cadet of one of the oldest
; families in France, destined to the church as the birtljnght of
' a younger son, but attached to his profession with a seriousness
and earnestness not common amongst the gay noblesse of the
ancien regime, who too often assumed the petit collet as the
badge of one sort of frivolity, just as their elder brothers
wielded the sword, and served a campaign or two, by way of
excuse for an idleness and dissipation of a different kind.
This devotion had of course been greatly increased by the
persecution of the church which distinguished the commence-
ment of the revolution. The good Abbe had been marked as
one of the earliest victims, and had escaped, through the
gratitude of an old servant, from the fate which swept off
Histers, and brothers, and almost every individual, except hira-
•elf, of a large and flourishing family. Penniless and solitary,
^e made his way to England, and found an asylum in the
|own of Belford, at first assisted by the pittance allowed by
our government to those unfortunate foreigners, and subse*
quently supported by his own exertions as assistant to the
toriest of the Catholic cliapel in Belford, and as a teacher of
ihe French language in the town and neighbourhood ; and so
iomplete had been the ravages of the revolution in his own

My readers will rcmeinbcr West’s exclamation on the first sight of the Apollo,

* A young Mohawk Indian, by Heaven ! ’*

82 TUB OID BMIGBR.

family, and so entirely had he established himself in the esteem
of his Knglish fi lends, that when the short peace of Amiens
restored so many o^ his brother emigres to their native land,
he refused to quit the country of his adoption, and remained
the contented inhabitant of the Friary Cottage.

'J he. contented and most beloved inhabitant, not only of
that small cottage, but of the town to which it belonged, was
the good Abbe. Everybody loved tlie kind and placid old
man, whose resignation w'as so real and so cheerful, who had
such a talent for making the best of things, whose moral
alchyniy could extract some good out of every evil, and who
seemed mily the more indulgent to the faults and follies of
others because he had so little cause to require indulgence for
his own. One prejudice he had — a luiking predilection in
favour of good blood and long descent ; the Duke de St. Simon
himself would hardly have felt a stronger partiality for the
Montmorencies or the Monteinars ; and yet so well was this
prejudice governed, so closely veiled from all offensive display,
that not only la belle et bonne bourgeoise Madame Lane, as he
used to call the excellent wife of that great radical leader, but
even le gros bourgeois son epoux^ desperate whig as he was,
were amongst the best friends and sincerest well-wishers of
our courteous old Frenchman. He was their customer for
the little meat that his economy and his appetite required ;
and they were his, for as many French lessons as their rosy,
laughing daughters could be coaxed into taking during the
very short interval that elapsed between their respectively
leaving school and getting married. How the Miss Lanes
came to learn French at all, a piece of finery rather incon-
sistent with the substantial plainness of their general educa-
tioi^ Ltould not comprehend, until I found that the daughters
of ‘Mrs. Green, the grocer, their opposite neighbour, between
whom and dear Mrs. Lane there existed a little friendly
rivalry (for, good woman as she was, even Margaret Lane
had something of the ordinary frailties of human nature),
were studying French, music, dancing, drawing, and Italian ;
and, although she quite disapproved of this ha‘h of accom-
plisiiments, yet no woman in Christendom could bear to be so
entirely outdone by her next neighbour: besides, she doubt-
less calculated that the little they were likely to know of the
language would be too soon forgotten to do them any harm ;

THE OLD . EMIGRE.

83

that they would settle into sober tradesmen’s wives, content
“to scold their maidens in their mother tongue;*' and that
the only permanent consequence would be* the giving her the
power 10 be of some sliglit service to the good hnigre. So the
Miss Lanes learned French ; and Mrs. Lane, who was one of
poor Mrs. Duval’s best friends and most constant customers,
borrowed all her choicest receipts to compound for the Abbe
his favourite dishes, and contrived to fix the lessons at such
an hour as should authorise her offering the refreshment
which she had so carefully prepared. Dijon, too, the Abbe’s
pet dog, a beautiful little curly yellow and white .spaniel of
great sagacity and fidelity, always found a dinner ready for
him at Mrs. Lane’s ; and Louis Duval, his master’s other pet,
was at least e(jually welcome ; so that the whole trio were
soon at home in the Butts. And although Stephen held in
abomination all foreigners, and thought it eminently patriotic
and national to hate the French and their ways, never had
tasted coffee or taken a pinch of snuff in his days ; and
although the Abbe, on his part, abhorred smoking, and beer,
and punch, and loud talking, and all the John Bullisms
whereof Stephen w^as compounded; although Mr. Lane would
have held himself guilty of a sin had he known the French
for “how d’ye do.'*” and the Abbe, teacher of languages
though be were, had marvellously contrived to leiini no more
English than just served him to make out his pupil’s irrns-
lations (perhaps the constant reading of those incomparable
compositions might be the reason \Nhy the real spoken i(li( m-
atic tongue was still unintelligible to him); yet they did con-
trive, in spite of their mutual prejudices and their deficient
means of communication, to be on as frienilly and as cordial
terms as any two men in Belford ; and, considering that the
Frenchman was a decided aristocrat and the Englishman a
violent democrat, and that each knew the other’s politics, that
is saying much.

But from llie castle to the cottage, from the nobleman
whose cl'ildren he taught down to the farmer s wife who
furnished him with eggs and butter, the venerable Abb * was
a universal favourite. There was something in his very
appearance — his small neat person, a little bent, more by
sorrow than age — his thin white hair — his mild intelligent
countenance^ with a sweet placid smile, that spoke more of

G 2

84

THE OEB EMIGRE.

courtesy than of gaiety — his quiet manner, his gentle voice,
and even the broken English, which reminded one that he
was a sojourner in a strange land, lliat awakened a mingled
emotion of respect and of pit}'. Ilis dress, too, always neat,
yet never seeming new, contributed to the air of decayed
gentility that hung about him ; and the beautiful little dog
who was his constant attendant, and the graceful boy who so
frequently accompanied him, formed an interesting group on
the high roads which he frequented ; for the good Abbe was
so much in request as a teacher, and the amount of his
earnings was so considerable, that he might have passed for
well-to-do in, the world, had not his charity to his poorer
countrymen, and his liberality to Louis and to Mrs. Duval,
been such as to keep him constantly poor.

Amongst his pupils, and the friends of his pupils, his
urbanity and kindness could not fail to make him popular;
whilst his gentleness and patience ^with the stupid, and his
fine taste and power of inspiring emulation amongst the
cleverer children, rendered him a very valuable master.
Besides his large connection in Bclford, he attended, as we
have intimated, several families in the neighbourhood, and
one or two schools in the smaller towns, at eight or ten miles’
distance ; and the light and active old man was accustomed to
walk to these lessons, with little Bijou for his companion, even
in the depth of winter; depending, it may be, on an occasional
cast for himself and his dog in the gig of some good-natured
traveller, or the cart of some small farmer or his sturdy dame
returning from the market-town (for it is a characteristic of
our county that we abound in female drivers — almost all our
country wives are capital whips), who thought themselves
well repaid for their civility by a pinch of rappee in the one
case, or a Tank you, madame I “ Moche oblige, sar ! ” on
the other.

Nobody minded a winter’s walk less than M. TAbb^ ; and
as for Bijou, he delighted in it, and would dance and whisk
about, jump round his master s feet, and bark for very joy,
whenever he saw the hat brushing, and the great-coat putting
on, and the gloves taken out of their drawer, in preparation
for a sortie, especially in snowy weather — for Bijou loved a
frisk in the snow, and Louis liked it no less. But there was
ne person who never liked these cold and distant rambles,

THE OLD EMIGRE.

SS

and that person was Mrs. Duval ; and on one dreary morning
in January, especially, she opposed them by main and by
might. She bad ha(l bad dreams, too ; and Mrs. Duval was
the least in the world superstitious; and she was sure that
no good could come of taking such a walk as that to Chardley,
full a dozen miles, on such a day — nobody could be so
unreasonable as to expect M. I’Abbe in such^weather ; and as
for Miss Smith's school. Miss Smith’s school might wait!"

M. I’Abbe reasoned with her in vain. Your dreams —
bah ! — I must go, my dear little woman. All Miss Smith’s
pupils are come back from the holidays, and they w'ant their
lessons, and they have brought the money to pay me, and I
want the money to pay you, and I will bring you a pink

ribbon as bright as your cheeks, and Louis "

Oh, pray let me go with you, M. T Abbe ! " interrupted
Louis.

“ And Louis shall stay with you," pursued M. TAbbe.
^^You must not go, my dear boy; stay with your mother;
always be a good son to your good mother, and I will bring
you a book. I will bring you a new Horace, since you get
on so ivell with your Latin, God bless you, my dear boy !
Allons, Bijou!" And M. TAbbe was setting oflf.

At least stay all night !" interposed Mrs. Duval ; ^^doi/t
come home in the dark, pray !’’

“ Bah !’’ replied the Abbe, laughing.

And with money, too! and so many bad people about!
and such a dream as I have had ! " again exclaimed Madame

Duval. I thought that two wolves "

Your dream! bah!" ejaculated the Abbe. I shall
bring you a pink ribbon, and be home by ten." And with
these words he and Bijou departed.

Ten o'clock came — a cold, frosty night, not moonlight,
but starlight, and with so much snow upon the ground, that
the beaten pathway on the high road to Chardley might be
easily traced. Mrs. Duval, who had been fidgetty all through
the day, became more so as the evening advanced, particularly
as Louis importuned her vehemently to let him go and meet
their dear lodger.

“You go! No, indeed!” replied Madame Duval — ^‘^at
this time of night, and after my dream! It's quite bid
enough to have M. I’Abbe wandering about the high roads,

o 3

86

THE Or.D EMIGRE.

and money with him, and so many bad people stirring.
1 saw one great, tall, dangerous-looking fellow at the door
this morning, who seemed as if he had been listening when
he talked of bringing money home : I should not wonder if
he broke into the house — and my dream, too ! Stay where
you are, Louis. I won’t hear of your going.”

And the poor boy, who had been taking down hie furred
cap to go, looked at his mother’s anxious face, and stayed.

The hours wore away — eleven o’clock struck, an(l twelve
— and still there were no tidings of the Abbe. Mrs. Duval
began to comfort herself that he must have stayed to sleep at
Ghardley; that the Miss Smiths, whom she knew to be kind
women, had insisted on his sleeping at their house ; and she
was preparing to go to bed in that persuasion, when a violent
scratching and whining was heard at the door, and on Louis
running to open it, little Bijou rushed in, covered with dirt,
and without his master.

Oh, my dream ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Duval. Louis, I
thought that two wolves ”

Mother,” interrupted the boy, see how Bijou is jumping
upon me, and whining, and then running to the door, as if to
entice me to follow him. I must go.”

Oh, Louis! remember!” — again screamed his mother —

Remember the great ill-looking fellow who was listening this
morning ! ”

** You forget, dear mother, that we all spoke in French, and
that he could not have understood a word,” returned Louis.

“But my dream!” persisted Mrs. Duval. “ My dreams
always come true. Remember the pot I dreamt of your find-
ing in the ruins, and which, upon digging for, you did find.”

Which you dreamt was a pot of gold, and which turned
out to be a broken paint-pot,” replied Louis, impatiently.

Mother,” added he, ‘‘ I am sorry to disobey you, but see
how this poor dog is dragging me to the door ; hark how he
whines ! And look ! look ! there is blood upon his coat !
Perhaps his master has fallen and hurt himself, and even my
slight help may be of use. I must go, and I will.”

And following the word with the deed, Louis obeyed the
almost speaking action of the little dog, and ran quickly out of
the house, on the road to Ghardley. His mother, after an in-
stant of vague panic, recovered herself enough to alarm the

THE OLT> EMIGRE. 87

neighbours, and send more efficient help than a lad of eleven
years old to assist in the search.

With a beating heart the brave and affectionate boy' fol-
lowed the dog, who letl with a rapid pace and an occasional
low moan along the high road to Chardley. The night had
become milder, the clouds were driving along the sky, and a
small, sleety rain fell by gusts ; all, in short, bespoke an ap-
proaching thaw, although the ground continued covered with
snow, wliich cast a cold, dreary light on every object. For
nearly three miles Louis and Bijou pursued their vay alone.
At the end of that time, they were arrested by shouts a ul lan-
terns advancing rapidly from the town, and the poor lad recog-
nised the men whom his mother had sent to his assistance.

‘'Any news of the poor French gentleman, master?’* in-
quired John (fleve, the shoemaker, as he came up, almost
breathless with haste. " Its lucky that 1 and Martin had two
pair of boots to finish, and had not left our work ; for poor
Mrs, Duval there is half crazy with her fears for him and her
dread about you. How couldst thou think of runnitig off
alone ? What good could a lad like thee do, frightening his
poor mother? — And yet one likes un for’t,” added John,
softening as he proceeded in his harangue ; " one likes un for’t
mainly. But look at the dog !” pursued he, interrupting him-
self ; '• look at the dog, how he’s snuffing and shuffling about
in the snow I And hark how he wines and barks, questing
like ! And see what a trampling there’s been here, and how
the snow on the side of the path is trodden about !”

“ Hold down the lantern !** exclaimed Louis. "Give me
the light, 1 beseech you. Look here! this is blood — his
blood !” sobbed the affectionate? boy ; and, guided partly by
that awful indication, partly by the disturbed snow, and partly
by the dog, who, trembling in every limb, and keeping up a
low moan, still pursued the track, tliey clambered over a gate
into a field by the road side ; ai\d in a ditch, at a little distance,
found what all expected to find — the lifeless hotly of the
Abb“.

He had been dead apparently for some hours ; for the 'corpse
was cold, and the blood had stiffened on two wounds in his
body. His pockets had been rifled of his purse and his pocket-
book, both of which were found, with what money might have
been in them taken out, cast into the hedge at a sm^ll distance,

G 4

68 THE OLD EMIGBK.

together with a sword with a broken hilt, with which the awful
deetl had probably been committed. Nothing else had been
taken from the pooi old man. His handkercliief and snuff-
box were still in his pocket, together with three yards of rose-
coloured ribbon, neatly wrapped in paper, and a small edition
of Horace, with the leaves uncut. It may be imagined with
what feelings Mrs. Duval and Louis looked at these tokens of
recollection. Her grief found in tears the comfortable relief
which Heaven has ordained for woman’s sorrow; but Louis
could not cry — the consolation was denied him. A fierce
spirit of revenge had taken possession of the hitherto gentle
and placid boy : to discover and bring to justice the mur-
derer, and to fondle and cherish poor Bijou (who was with
difficulty coaxed into taking food, and lay perpetually at the
door of the room which contained his old master's body),
seemed to be the only objects for which Louis lived.

The wish to discover the murderer was general throughout
the neighbourhood where the good, the pious, the venerable
old man — harmless and inoffensive in word and deed, just,
and kind, and charitable — had been so truly beloved and
respected. Large rewards were offered by the Catholic
gentry*, and every exertion was made by the local police, and

• I cannot name the Calhnlic gentry without paying mv humble but most sincere
tribute of ros}»ect to the singularly higii rhararter of the old Catholic f.imilics in this
cntiiity. It seems as if the oppres>ion under wliieh they so long lalKJured, had ex-
cited them to oppose to snih injustice the passive bnt powcrinl resi-rauce of high
moral virtue, of 8|>otless integrity, of chivalrous honour, and of a ditfusive ch irity,
which their oppressors would have done well to imitate. Amongst tlieni are lo be
found the names of Throckmorton, the friend and patron of Cowper, and of Ulount,
so ivound up with every recollection of Pope, and of Kyslon, of Kast Heiidrid, more
ancient, perhaps, than any house in the count v, whose cnrimis old chajicl, apiieuded
to his maiihion, is mentioned iu a deed bearing date the Ibth of Mav, a n. now
in the oO'se-sinn of the t nnily. Nothing can lie more interesting than the account,
in a MS belonging to Mr. Evston, of the re-opening of this chapel during the short
perioi in which the Roman Catholic religion was tolerated under James the Second ;
and of the iierscculion which succeeded at the Revolntinn. 'i'hesc scenes are now
matters of history, anti of history only ; since the growing wisdom and the human,
ising spirit of the legislature and the age rbibitl even the fear of their recurrence ;
but as curious historical documents, and as a standing lesson against bigotry and
intolerance, ht'wever styled, a collection of such narratives (and many such, 1 be.
lieve, exist amongst the old Catholic families,) would bo very valu.ibie. One of the
most remarkable MSS, that I have happened to meet with, is an account of the life
and character of .Sir Francis Englefylde, Knt. privy eonn'ellor to yneen Mary, who
retired into Spain to escape from the persecutions of Elizabeth, and died in an exile
which lie shared with many of his most einincnt countrymen. He also btdo iged to
our neighbourhood ; the family of Englefield, now extinct, bt'iiig the ancient |M»g-
eessnm of Whiteknights 'J'he Catholic gentleman, however, of our own day, whom
Belford has the greatest ennso to rank amongst its benefactors, is our iieighl)our~ I
will venture to say our fnciid — Mr. Wheble, a man emiiieniiy charitable, liberal,
and enlightened, whose zeal for his own church, whilst it tiocs not impede the ex-
ercise of the widest and the most geniiitie benevolence towards the professors of
Oth^ lorms of faith, has induced him to purchase all that could be purchased of the

THE OLD EMIGttlfl.

the magistracy of the town and country, to accomplish this
great object. John Gleve had accurately measured the shoe-
marks to and from the ditch where the body was found ; but
farther than the gate of the field they had not thought to
trace the footsteps ; and a thaw having come on, all signs had
disappeared before the morning. It had been ascertained that
the Miss Smiths had paid him, besides Some odd money, in
two 10/. notes of the Chardley bank, the numbers of which
were known ; but of them no tidings could be procured. He
liad left their house, on his return, about six o'clock in the
evening, and had been seen to pass through a turnpike-gate,
midway between the two towns, about eight, when, with his
usual courtesy, he bade a cheerful good- night to the gate-
keeper ; and this was the last that had been heard of him.
No suspicious person had been observed in the neighbour-
hood ; the most sagacious and experienced officers were com-
pletely at fault,* and the coroner’s inquest was obliged to
bring in the vague and unsatisfactory verdict of Found
murdered, by some person or persons unknown,”

Many loose people, such as beggars and vagrants, and wan-
dering packmen, were, however, apprehended, and obliged to
give an account of themselves ; and on one of these, a rag-
man, called James Wilson, something like suspicion was at
last fixed. The sword with which the murder was committed,
an old regimental sword, with the mark and number of the
regiment ground out, had, as 1 have said before, a broken
hilt ; and round this hilt was wound a long strip of printed
calico, of a very remarkable pattern, which a grocer s wife in
Belford, attracted by the strange curiosity with which vulgar
persons pursue such sights, to go and look at it as it lay
exposed for recognition on a table in the Town Hall, remem-
bered to have seen in the shape of a gown on the back of a
girl who had lived with her a twelvemonth before ; and the

ruins of the ^?rcnt abboy, ami to rescue the little that was still undcsecrated hy the
prison, the sciiool, and the wliarf. Of these tine remains of the splendour amt the
piety of our aneestors, the iieautifiii arch and the sight of the abhey cliurch are
fortunat ly amongst the portions thus prescrvetl lYoin baser uses. It is impossible
not to sympathi^c strongly with the feeling which dictated tins purchase, and equally
impossible not to lament, if only a-, a matter of taste, tliar there was no such guardian
hand titty years ago, to prevent the erection of the county ga»d, ami the subsequent
introduction of quays and national schools amongst some t»t the most extensive and
linely-sitiiatod monastic ruins in Kngland, now irreparably contaminated by objecti
the most unsightly, and associations the most painful and degrading. .

90

THE OLD EMIGRE.

girl, on being sought out in a neighbouring village, deposed
readily to having sold the gown, several weeks back, to the
rag-man in question. The measure of the shoes also fitted ;
but they unluckily were of a most common shape and size.
Wilson brought a man from the paper-mill to prove that the
entire gown in question had been carried there by him, with
other rags, about a month before ; and called various wit-
nesses, who made out a complete alibi on the night in ques-
tion ; so that the magistrates, although strongly prejudiced
against him, from countenance and manner, — the down look
and the daring audacity with whicli nature, or rather evil
habit, often stamps the ruffian, — were, after several exami-
nations, on the point of discharging him, when young Louis,
who had attended the whole inquiry with an intelligence and
an intensity of interest which, boy as he was, hail won for
him the privilege of being admitted even to the private exa-
minations of the magistrates, and whose ill opinion of Wilson
had increased every hour, he himself hardly knew why, sud-
denly exclaimed, Stop until I bring a witness!" and darted
out of the room.

During the interval of his absence, — for such was the
power of the boy’s intense feeling and evident intelligence,
that the magistrates did stop for him, — one of the police-
officers happened to observe how tightly the prisoner grasped
his hat. Is it mere anger?’' thought he within himself;

or is it agitation ? or can they have been such fools as not

to search the lining.^" Let me look at that hat of

yours, Wilson," said he aloud.

It has been searched," replied Wilson, still holding it.

What do you want with the hat? ’’

I want to see the lining."

There is no lining," replied the prisoner, grasping it
still tighter.

Let me look at it, nevertheless. Take it from him,"
rejoined the officer. “ Ah, ha! here is a little ragged bit of
lining, though, sticking pretty fast too ; for as loose and as
careless as it looks, — a fine, cunning hiding-place I Give
me a knife — a penknife!" said the myrmidon of justice,
retiring with his knife and the hat to the window, followed
by the eager looks of the prisoner, whose attention, however,
was immediately called to a nearer danger, by the return of

THE OLT> EMIGR^.

91

Louis, with little Bijou in his arms. The poor dog flew at
him instantly, barking, growling, quivering, almost shrieking
with fury, bit his heels and his legs, and was with difficulty
dragged from him, so strong had passion made the faithful
creature.

Look!” said Louis. I brought him from his master’s
grave to bear witness against his murderer. Look ! ”

Their worships will hardly commit me on the evidence
of a dog,” observed Wilson, recovering himself.

But see here,” rejoined the police-officer, producing two
dirty bits of paper, most curiously folded, from the old hat*
Here are the two Chardley notes — the 10/. notes — signed
David Williams, Nos. 1025. and 602. What do you say to
that evidence? You and the little dog are right, my good
boy ; this is the murderer, sure enough. There can be no
doubt about committing him now.”

It is hardly necessary to add that James Wilson was com-
mitted, or that proof upon proof poured in to confirm his
guilt and discredit his witnesses, lie died confessing the
murder ; and Bijou and Louis, somewhat appeased by having
brought the criminal to justice, found comfort in their mutual
aflTection, and in a tender recollection of their dear old friend
and master.

Note. — Not to go back to the dog of Montargis, and other
well-attested accounts of murderers detected by dogs, I can
bring a living spaniel to corroborate the fact, that these faith-
ful and sagacious animals do seek assistance for their masters
when any evil befals them. The story, as told to me by
Bramble’s present mistress, whom I have the great pleasure to
reckon amongst my friends, is as follows: —

The blacksmith of a small village in Buckinghamshire went
blind, and was prevented from pursuing his occupation. He
found, Itowever, a friend in a surgeon of the neighbourhood, a
man of singular kindness and benevolence, who employed him
to carry out medicines, which he was enabled to do by the aid
of a dog and a chain. But old John was a severe master, and
of his dogs many died, and many ran away. At last, he had
the good fortune to light upon our friend Bramble, a large
black-and-white spaniel, of remarkable symmetry and beauty.

THE OLD EMIGBB.

92

with wavy hair, very long ears, feathered legs and a bushy
tail, and with sagacity and fidelity equal to his beauty. Under
Bramble’s guidance, blind John performed his journeys in
perfect safety ; wherever the poor dog had been once, he was
sure to know his way again ; and he appeared to discover, as
if by instinct, to what place his master wished to go. One
point of his conduct was peculiarly striking. He constantly
accompanied his master to church, and lay there perfectly
quiet during the whole service. For three years that he
formed regularly one of the congregation, he was never known
to move or to make the slightest noise.

One bitter night, old John had been on a journey to
Woburn, and not returning at his usual hour, the relations
with whom he lived went to bed, as it was not uncommon for
the blind man, when engaged on a longer expedition than
common, to sleep from home. The cottage accordingly was
shut up, and the inhabitants, tired with labour, went to bed
and slept soundly. The people at a neighbouring cottage,
however, fancied that they heard, during the long winter-
night, repeated bowlings as of a dog in distress ; and when
they rose in the morning, the first thing they heard was, that
old John lay dead in a ditch not far from his own door.
The poor dog was found close by the body ; and it was ascer-
tained by the marks on the path, that he had dragged his
chain backward and forward from the ditch to the cottage, in
.the vain hope of procuring such assistance as might possibly
have saved his master.

Luckily for Bramble, the benevolent surgeon, always bis
very good friend, was called in to examine if any spark of
life remained in the body ; and he having ascertained that
poor John was fairly dead, told the story of the faithful dog
to his present excellent mistress, with whom Bramble is as
happy as the day is long.

It is comfortable to meet with a bit of that justice which,
because it is so rare, people call poetical, in real actual life ;
and I very believe that in this case Bramble's felicity is quite
equal to his merits, high as they undoubtedly are. The only
drawback that 1 have ever heard hinted at, is a tendency on
his part to grow over fat ; a misfortune which doubtless
results from his present good feed, coming after a long course
of starvation.

THE OLD EMIGRE.

93

Now that I am telling stories of dogs, I cannot resist
the temptation of recording one Jshort anecdote of my pet
spaniel Dash, a magnificent animal, of whose beauty 1 have
spoken elsewhere, and who really does all but speak himself.

Every May I go to the Silchester woods, to gather wild
lilies of the valley. Last year the numbers were, from some
cause or other, greatly diminished : the roots, it is true, were
there, but so scattered over the beautiful terraces of that un-
rivalled amphitheatre of woods, and the blossoms so rare, that
in the space of several acres, thinly covered with the plants
and their finely-lined transparent green leaves, it was difficult
to procure half-a-dozen of those delicate flower- stalks hung
with snowy bells, and amidst the shifting lights and shadows
of the coppice, where the sunbeams seemed to dance through
the branches, still more difficult to discover tl'iC few that there
were. 1 went searching drearily through the wood, a little
weary of seeking and not finding, when Dash, who had been
on his own devices after pheasants and hares, returning to me,
tired with his sort of sport, began to observe mine ; and at
once discerning my object and my perplexity, went gravely
about the coppice, lily hunting ; finding them far more quickly
than I did, stopping, wagging his tail, and looking round at
me by the side of every flower, until I came and gathered it ;
and then, as soon as I’ had secured one, pursuing his search
after another, and continuing to do so without the slightest
intermission until it was time to go home. I am half afraid
to tell this story, although it is as true as that there are lilies
in Silchester wood ; and the anecdote of Cowper's dog Beau
and the water-lily is somewhat of a case in point. Whether
Dash found the flowers by scent or by sight, 1 cannot tell ;
probably by the latter.

9*

THB TAMBOURINB.

THE TAMBOURINE.

A OHEESE-FAIR ADVENTURE.

Everybody likes a fair. Some people indeed, especially of
the order called fine ladies, pretend that they do not. But go
to the first that occurs in their neighbourhood, and there,
Amongst the thickest of the jostling crowd, with staring carters
treading upon their heels, and grinning farmers* boys rubbing
against their petjticoats, — there, in the very middle of the
confusion, you shall be sure to dnd them, fine ladies though
they be I They still, it is true, cry How disagreeable ! ** —
but there they are.

. Now, the reasons against liking a fair are far more plausible
than any that can be alleged on the other side : the dirt, the
wet, the sun, the rain, the wind, the noise, the cattle, the
crowd, the cheats, the pickpockets, the shows with nothing
worth seeing, the stalls with nothing worth buying, the danger
of losing your money, the certainty of losing your time, — all
these are valid causes for <lislike ; whilst in defence of the fair
there is little more to plead than the general life of the scene,
the pleasure of looking on so many happy faces, the conscious-
ness that one day at least in the year is the peasam’s holiday
— and the undeniable fact, that, deny it as they may, all
English people, even the cold fine lady, or the colder fine
gentleman, do at the bottom of their hearts like a fair. It is
a taste, or a want of taste, that belongs to the national tem-
perament, is born with us, grows up with us, and will never
be got rid of, let fashion declaim against it as she may.

The great fair at Belford had, however, even higher pre-
tensions to public favour than a deep-rooted old English feel-
ing. It was a scene of business as well as of amusement,
being not only a great market for horses and cattle, but one
of the principal marts for the celebrated cheese of the great
da|^ counties. Factors from the West and dealers from
London arrived days before the actual fair-day ; and waggon
after waggon, laden with the round, hard, heavy merchandise
rumbM slowly into the Forbury, where the great space before
the aihool-house, tlte whole of the boys’ play.ground, was

THB TAMBOURINE.

95

fairly covered with stacks of Cheddar and North Wilts.
Fancy the singular effect of piles of cheeses several feet high,
extending over a whole large cricket- ground, and divided only
by narrow paths littered wiih straw, amongst which wandered
the busy chapmen, offering a taste of tlieir wares to their,
cautious customers the country shopkeepers (who poured iu
from every village within twenty miles), and the thrifty
housewives of the town, who, bewildered by the inbnite
number of samples which, to an uneducated palate, seemed all *
alike, chose at last almost at random. Fancy the effect of this
remarkable scene, surrounded by cattle, horses, shows, and
people, the usual moving picture of a fair ; the fine Gothic
church of St Nicholas on one side ; the old arch of the abbeys
and the abrupt eminence called Forbury Hill, crowned by a
grand clump of trees, on the other ; the Mall, with its row of
old limes and its handsome bouses, behind ; and in front, thd
great river flowing slowly through *green meadows, and backed
by the high ridge of C)xford^hire hills ; — imagine this bril-
liant panorama, and you will not wonder that the most delicate
ladies braved the powerful fumes of the cheese — an odour so
intense that it even penetrated the walls and windows of the
school-house — to contemplate the scene. When lighted up
at night, it was perhaps still more fantastic and attractive^
particularly before the Zoological gardens had afforded a home
to the travelling wild beasts, whose roars and bowlings at
feeding-time used to mingle so grotesquely with the drums,
trumpets and fiddles of the dramatic and equestrian exhibitions,
and the laugh and shout and song of the merry visitors.

A most picturesque scene, of a truth, was the Belford
cheese-fair; and not alw'ays unprofitable; at least, 1 happen
to know one instance, where, instead of having his pocket
picked by the light-fingered gentry, whom mobs of all sorts
are sure to collect, an honest person of my acquaintance was
lucky enough to come by his own again, and recover in that
unexpected place a piece of property of which he had been
previously defrauded.

The case was as follows : —

The male part of our little establishment consists not of one
man-servant, as is usual with persons of sraall fortune and.
some gentility, who keep, like that other poor and f^jcnteel
personage yclept JDon Quixote, a horse and a brace of giey«

THE TAMBOURINE.

96

bounds (to say nothing of my own pony phaeton and my dog
Dash), but of two boys — the one a perfect pattern of a lad of*
fifteen or thereabouts, the steadiest, quietest, and most service-
able youth that ever bore the steady name of John ; the other
an urchin called Ben, some two years younger, a stunted
dwarf, or rather a male fairy — Puck, or Robin Goodftllow,
for instance — full of life and glee, and good-humour, and
innocent mischief — a tricksy spirit, difficult to manage, but
kindly withal, and useful after his own fashion, though occa-
sionally betrayed into mistakes by over-shrewdness, just as
other boys blunder from stupidity. Instead of conveying a
message word for word as delivered, according to the laudable
practice of the errand gods and goddesses, the Mercurys and
Irises in Homer’s immortal poems, Master Ben hath a teick of
thinking for his master, and clogging his original missive wj^h
certain arnendments or additional clauses hatohed in his own
fertile braii^ •

' Occasionally, also, he is rather super-subtle in his rigid
fare of bis master’s interest, and exercises an over-scrupulous
watchfulness in cases where less caution would be more agree-
able. At this veryjast fair, for instance, we had a horse to
sell, which was confided to a neighbouring farmer to dispose
of, with the usual charges against being overreached in his
bargain, or defrauded of the money when sold. 1 11 see to
that,” responded Ben, taking the words out of the mouth of
the slow, civil farmer Giles — I'll see to that ; I’m to ride
the mare, end nobody shall get her from me without the
money.” Off they set accordingly, and the horse, really a fine ^
animal, was speedily sold to a neighbouring baronet, a man of
large estate in the county, who sent his compliments to my
father, and that he would call and settle for him in a day or
two. This message perfectly satisfied our chapman the
farmer, but would by no means do for Ben, who insisted on
receiving the money before delivering the steed; and after
being paid by a check on the county banker, actually rode to
die bank to make sure of the cash before he would give up hia
charge, either to the amazed Sir Robert or his wondering
groom. I suppose, Ben, you did not know Sir Robert ? ”
inquired his master, rather scandalised ; when Ben, finding
him out in the fair, handed him the money triumphantly, and
told his story, Lord, sir,” rejoined Ben, 1 knew iim as

THE TAMBOURINE.

d7

well as 1 know you ; but great people's money is sometimes
as hard to get as poor ones' ; besides, this Sir Robert is a pro-
digal chap, dresses as smart and talks as fine as his valet —
'twas best to secure the cash if he were ten times over a
baronet. You can tell him, though, that I did not know him,
if you like, sir, the next time you meet.” And the white fib
was told accordingly, and the affront happily got over.

This fact, however illustrative of Master Ben's general
character, has nothing to do with our present story, though,
as the denouejnent of the tambotirine adventure took place on
the same day, the two legends may be considered as in some
small degree connected.

Amongst Ben's otlfer peculiarities was a strong faculty of
imitation, which he possessed in common with monkeys, mag-
pies, and oilier clever and niischievous animals ; but which, in
his particular case, applied as it generally was to topying, so
‘correct a model as John served as a sort of counterpoise to his
more volatile pi^opensities, something like the ballast to the
ship, or the balance-wheel to the* machinery. The point to
which this was carried was really ludicrous. If you saw John
in the garden carrying a spade, you wefb pretty sure to see
Ben following him armed with a rake. When John watered
my geraniums after the common fashion of pouring water into
the pots, Ben kept close, behind him, with a smaller imple-
ment, pouring the refreshing element into the pans. Whilst
John washed one wheel of my pony phaeton, Ben was, at the
self-same moment, washing another. Were a pair of shoes
sent to be blacked, so sure as John assumed the brush to
polish the right shoe, Ben took possession of the left. He
cleaned the forks to John’s knives ; and if a coat were to be
beaten, you were certain to hear the two boys thumping away
at once on different sides.

Of course, if this propensity were observable in their work,
it became infinitely more so in their amusements. If John
played marbles, so did Ben ; if cricket, there, in the same
game, and on the same side, was Ben. If the one went a
nutting, you were sure in the self-same copse to lintl his faith-
ful adherent; and when John, last winter, bought a fiddle
and took to learning music, it followed, as a matter of necessity,
that Ben should become musical also. The only difficulty
was the choice of an instrument. A fiddle was out of the

T&B TAMBOtJRlNB.

9ft

qiieBtioDi not only because the price was beyond his finances,
aa^: ki^er than any probable sum out of which he could rea-
apn^bly expect to coax those who wrongfully enough were
accused of spoiling him — the young gentleman being what is
TU^arly called spoiled long before he came into their hands
^but because Master Ben had a very rational and well-
founded doubt of his own patience (John, besides bis real love
of the art, being naturally of a ploilding disposition, widely
diderent from the mercurial temperament of his light-hearted
and light-headed follower), and desired to obtain some imple-
ment of sound (for he was not very particular as to its sweet-
ness), on which he might with all possible speed obtain
sufficient skill to accompany bis comrade in his incessant, and
at first most untunable, practice.

Ben’s original trial was on an old battered flageolet, bestoweil
upon him by the ostler at the Rose, for whom he occasionally
performed odd jobs, which at first was obstinately mute in
spite of all his blowings, and wdien it did become vocal under
his strenuous efforts, emitted such a series of alternate shrieks,
and groans, and squeaks, as fairly frightened the neighbour-
hood, and made John stop his ears. So Ben found it con-
venient to put aside that instrument, which, in spite of the
ostler's producing from it a very respectable imitation of
^^Auld Lang Syne," Ben pronounced to be completely good
for notliing.

His next attempt was on a flute, whicli looked sufficiently
shapeable and glittering to have belonged to a far higher
performer, and which was presented to him by our excellent
neighbour Mr. Murray's smart footman, who being often at
our house with notes and messages from his mistress, had
become captivated, like his betters, by Ben's constant gaiety
and good humour — the delightful festivity of temper and
fearless readiness of wit, which rendered the poor country-boy
so independent, so happy, and so enviable. Mr. Thomas
presented his superb flute to Ben — and Ben tried for three
whole days to make it utter any sound — but^ alas ! he tried
in vain. So he honestly and honourably returned the gift to
Mr. Thomas, with a declaration that he had no doubt but
the flute was an excellent flute, only that he had not breath
to play on it ; he was afraid of his lungs." Ben afraid of his
lungs ! whose voice could be heard of a windy day from one

THE TAMBOURINE.

99

€nd of the village street to the other — ay, to the very hill-*
top, rising over all the din of pigs, geese, children, carriages,
horses, and cows ! Ben in want of breath ! Ben ! whose
tongue, during the whole four-and-twenty hours, was never
still for a moment, except when he was asleep, and who even
stood suspected of talking in his dreams ! Ben in want of
breath ! However, he got out of the scrape, by observing,
that it was only common civility to his friend, Mr. Thomas,
to lay the fault on himself rather than on the flute, which, as
Ben sagaciously, and, I think, truly observed, was like the
razors of the story, made for sale and not for use.”

The next experiment was more successful.

It so happened that a party of gipsies had pitched their
tent and tethered their donkeys in Kibes Lane, and fowls
were disappearing from the henroost, and linen vanishing from
the clothes-line, as is usual where an encampment of that
picturesque^^ but slippery order of vagabonds takes place.
71ie party in question consisted as usual of tall, lean, suspicious-
looking men, an aged sibyl or two of fortune-telling aspect,
two or three younger women with infants at their backs, and
children of all ages and sizes, from fifteen downwards. One
lad, apparently about our hero’s age, but considerably larger,
had struck up an acquaintance with Ben .('who used to pass
that 'way to fetch a dole of milk from our kind neighbours the
Murrays, and usually took his master’s greyhounds with him
for company), and had made sufficient advances tow'ards fa-
miliarity to challenge him to a coursing expedition, promising
that their curs should find hares, provided the greyhounds
would catch them ; and even endeavouring to pique him on
the point of honour (for Ben was obviously proud of his
lx?autiful and high-bred dogs), by insinuating that the game

Bcsulos thoir prrint'nt picturcpquenpss, there is a poetical feeling about these
wandering tribes, that can l)ardly fail to intciest. The following anecdote, i]lu^tra-
tive of this fact, is new to me, and maybe so to my readers : — One fine spring
morning, a friend of inine saw a yon.:g gipsy.girl jumping ;md clapping her hands,
and shoupng to an elderly female. 1 have done it! 1 have done it!” — “Done
what inquired my friend, — ‘‘ Set my foot on nine daisies at once, ma’am,” was
the reply; and then she and the elder one began chanting a song, the burden of
which was, as nearly as tlieir auditress could recollect, as follows : —

** Summer is come.

With the daisy bud.

To gladden our tents
By the merry green wood ,

Summer is come! Summer is come! ”

H 2

100

THE TAMBOURINE.

might be more easily found than caught Ben^ however^ too
conversant with the game-laws to fall into the snare, laughed
at the gipsy-boy, and passed quietly on his way.

The next day, Dick (for such was the name of his new
acquaintance) made an attack upon Ben, after a different
fashion, and with a more favourable result.

Perched on a knoll, under a fine clump of oaks, at a turning
of the lane, stood the young gipsy, beating the march in Blue-
beard, with the most approved flourishes, on a tambourine of
the largest size. Ben was enchanted. He loitered to listen,
stopped to admire, proceeded to question Dick as to the owner-
ship of the instrument, and on finding that this splendid im-
plement of noise was the lad’s own property, and to be sold to
the best bidder, commenced a chaffering and bargaining, which
in its various modifications of beating down on one side, and
crying up on the other, and pretended indifference on both,
lasted five days and a half, and finally became the happy
possessor of the tambourine, for the sum of four shillings ~
half a guinea having been the price originally demanded.

Who now so triumphant as Ben ! The tambourine (though
gpreatly the worse for wear) was still a most efficient promoter
of din, and for four-and-twenty hours (for I really believe
that during the first night of its belonging to him the boy
never went to bed) it was one incessant tornado of beating,
jingling, and rumbling — the whole house was deafened by
the intolerable noise which the enraptured tambourinist was
pleased to call music. At the end of that time the parchment
(already pretty well worn) fairly cracked, as well it might,
under such unmerciful pommelling, and a new head, as Ben
called it, became necessary. It had been warranted to wear
for six months, under pain of forfeiting eighteen -pence by the
former possessor ; but on repairing to Kibe's Lane, Dick and
his whole tribe, tents, donkeys, and curs, had disappeared, and
the evil was so far without remedy. The purchaser had ex-
hausted his funds ; everybody was too much out of humour
with the noise to think of contributing money to promote its
renewal, and any other boy would have despaired

But Ben was a lad of resource. Amongst his various friends
and patrons, he numbered the groom of an eminent solicitor
in Belford, to whom he stated his case, begging him to procure
for him some reversionary parchment, stained, or blotted, or

THE TAMBOURINE.

101

discoloured^ or what not — anything would do, so that it were
whole ; and the groom was interested, and stated the case to
the head clerk ; and the clerk was amused, and conveyed the
petition to his master ; and the master laughed, and sent Ben
forthwith a cancelled deed ; and the tambourine was mended ;
and for another four-and-twenty hours we were stunned.

At the end of that time, having laid down the instrument
from pure weariness, his left arm being stiff from holding and
tossing, and his right knuckles raw from thumping, Ben
deposited his beloved treasure in a nook which he had espe-
cially prepared for it in the stable ; and on going to pay it a
visit the next morning, the dear tambourine was gone —
vanished — stolen — lost, as we all thought, for ever ! and poor
Ben was so grieved at the loss of his plaything, that, nuisance
as the din had been, we could not help being sorry too, and
had actually commissioned him to look out for another second-
hand instrument, and promised to advance the purchase-
money, when the aspect of afiairs was suddenly changed by the
adventure before alluded to, which occurred at the great
cheese-fair at Belford.

After receiving the money from Sir Robert — or rather,
after getting his check cashed at the hank, and delivering the
horse to the groom, as I have before stated — Ben having
transferred the notes to his master, and received half-a-crown
to purchase a fairing, proceeded to solace himself by taking a
leisurely view of the different shows, and having laughed at
punch, stared at the wild beasts, and admired the horseman-
ship, was about to enter a booth, to enjoy the delight of a
threepenny play, when, on a platform in front, where the
characters, in full costume, were exhibiting themselves to
attract an audience to the entertainment about to commence,
he was struck hy the apparition of a black boy in a turban,
flourishing a tambourine, and in spite of the change of colour
in the player, and a good deal of new gilding on the instru-
ment, was instantly convinced that he beheld his quondam
friend Dick the gipsy, and his own beloved tambourine !

Ben was by no means a person to suffer such a discovery to
pass unimproved; he clambered on the railing that surrounded
the booth, leaped on the platform, seized at one clutch the
instrument and the performer, and in spite of the resistance
offered by a gentleman in a helmet and spangles, a most
H 3

THE TAMBOURINE.

102

Amazonian lady in a robe and diadem, and a personage, sex
unknown, in a pair of silver wings, gold trousers, and a
Brutus wig, he succeeded in mastering the soi^disant negro-
boy, and raising such a clamour as brought to his assistance a
troop of constables and other officials, and half the mob of the
fair.

Ben soon made known his grievance. He's no black-
amoor ! " shouted the lad, dexterously cleaning with a wetted
finger part of the cheek of the simulated African, and dis-
covering the tanned browm skin underneath. He's a thief
and a gipsy ! And this is my tambourine ! I can prove the
fact ! " roared Ben. “ I can swear to the parchment, and so
can lawyer Lyons," added Ben (displaying the mutilated but
clerk-like writing, by which Simon Lackland, Esq., assigned
over to Daniel Holdfast, Gent., the manor and demesnes,
woods and fisheries, park-lands and pightles, of Flyaway, in
consideration, and so forth). ‘‘ I can swear to my tam-
bourine, and so can my -master, and so can the lawyer ! Take
us to the bench I Carry us before the mayor ! 1 can swear

to the tambourine, and the thief who is playing it, who is no
more a negro than I am I " pursued Ben, sweeping off* another
streak of the burnt cork from the sunburnt face of the luckless
Dick. I’m Doctor M.'s boy," bawled Ben, and he’ll see
me righted, and the tambourine's mine, and I'll have it ! "

And have it he did ; for the lawyer and his master both
happened to be wdthin hearing, and bore satiofactory testimony
to his veracity ; and the mob, who love to administer sum-
mary justice, laid hold of the culprit, whom Ben, having
recovered his property, was willing to let off* scot-free, and
amused themselves with very literally washing the blackamoor
white by means of a sound ducking in the nearest horse-pond.
And the tambourine was brought home in triumph ; and we
are as much stunned as ever.

103

MRS. HOLLIS, THE FRUITERER.

At the corner of St. Stephen’s church-yard, forming a sort of
angle at the meeting of four roads, stands a small shop, the
front abutting on the open space caused by the crossing of the
streets, one side looking into the Butts, the other into the
church-yard, and one end only connected with other houses ;
a circumstance which, joined to the three open sides being, so
to say, glazed — literally composed of shop-windows, gives au
agreeable singularity to the little dwelling of our fruiterer.
By day it looks sometl)ing like a greenhouse, or rather, like
the last of a row of stove-houses ; and the resemblance is
increased by the contents of the shop-windows, consisting of
large piled-up plates of every fruit in season, interspersed
with certain pots of plants which, in that kind of atmosphere,
never blow, — outlandish plants, names unknown, whose
green, fleshy, regular leaves have a sort of fruity-look with
them, seem as if intended to be eaten, and assort wonderfully
well with the shaddocks, dates, cocoa-nuts, pine-apples, and
other rare and foreign fruits, amongst which they stand. By
night it has the air of a Chinese lantern, all light and colour;
and whether by night or by day, during full eight months of
the year, that ever -open door sends forth the odours of count-
less chests of oranges, with which above all other productions
of the earth the little shop is filled, and which come streaming
across the pavement like a perfume.

I have an exceeding affection for oranges and the smell of
oranges in every shape : the leaf, the flower, the whole flower-
ing tree, with its exquisite elegance*, its rare union of richness

* So elegant is it, that the very association connected with it will sometimes con-
fer a grace not its ow Tor instance, au iiiditi'ereiit play called Klviia, taken from
the Spanish some twr liundred years ago by (Jeorge Digby, Karl of Bristol, is really
made tasteful by the i.cenc being laid partly amongst the orange-groves of a Sjvinish
garden, and partly in the “perfuming room,” a hall, or laboratory, where the
flowers were distilled and in wliich the mistress sets one of her attendants, a lady
in disguise, the pretty task of gathering and changing the flowers. No one can con-
ceive the effect of this tasteful flxiugof the scene, in heightLMiing and ennobling the
female characters. Our own greenhouses were originally built for tender ever-
greens, chiefly oranges and myrtles; and an orangery is still one of tiie rarest and
most elegant ap^uirtenunccs to a great house, borne of my hajipicst days were spent

H 4

104

MBS. HOLLIS^

and delicacy^ and its aristocratic scarcity and unwillingness to
blossom, or even to grow in this climate, without light and
heat, and shelter and air, and all the appliances which its
sweetness and beauty so well deserve. I even love that half-
evergreen, flexible honeysuckle, with the long wreaths of
flowers, which does condescend to spread and flourish, and
even to blow for half the year, all the better, because its
fragrance approaches nearer to that of the orange blossom than
any other that I know : and the golden fruit with its golden
rind, I have loved both for the scent and the taste from the
day when a tottering child, laughing and reaching after the
prize which I had scarcely words enough to ask for, it was
doled out to me in quarters, through the time when, a little
older, 1 was promoted to the possession of half an orange to
my own share, and that still prouder hour when I attained
the object of my ambition, and had a whole orange to do what
I liked with, up to this very now, when, if oranges were still
things to sigh for, I have'only to send to Mrs. Hollis’s shop,
and receive in return for one shilling, lawful money of Great
Britain, more of the golden fruit than I know what to do
with. Everybody has gone through this chapter of the growth
and vanity of human wishes — has longed for the fruit, not
only for its own sweetness, but as a mark of property and
power, which vanish when possessed — great to the child, to
the woman nothing. But I still love oranges better and care
for them more than grown people usually do, and above all
things I like the smell ; the rather, perhaps, that it puts me
in mind of the days when, at school in London, I used to go
to the play so often, and always found the house scented with
the quantity of orange-peel in the pit, so that to this hour that
particular fragrance brings John Kemble to my recollection.
I certainly like it the better on that account, and as certainly,
ahhough few persons can be less like the great tragedian
glorious John I — as certainly 1 like it none the worse for
recalling to my mind my friend Mrs. Hollis.*

As long as I can recollect, Mrs. Hollis has been the in-
habitant of this grand depot of choice fruits, the inmate not

io dmt belonging to Belford Manor-house, looking out from amid orange-trees,
second only to those at Hampton Court, on gay flowers, green trees, and a bright
river, to the sunny month ot June, and enjoying society worthy of the scenery.

* My fViend Mr. Jerrold has added still another theatrical iisxociation by his ini.
mitlble creation of Orange Moll -^-a pleasant extravagance worthy of Middleton.

THB FRUITERER.

105

!sO much of the house as of the shop. I never, with one
signal exception, saw her out of that well-glazed apartment,
nor did I ever see the shop without her. She was as much
a fixture there as one of her flowerless plants, and seemed as
little subject to change or decay in her own person. From
seven o'clock, when it was opened, till nine, when the shutters
were closed, there she sat in one place, from whence she
seldom stirred, a chair behind the right-hand counter, where
she could conveniently reach her most tempting merchandise,
and hold discourse with her friends and customers (terms
which in her case were nearly synonymous), even although
they advanced no nearer towards the sanctum than the step at
the door. There she has presided, the very priestess of that
temple of Pomona, for more years than 1 can well reckon —
from her youth (if ever she were young) to now, when,
although far from looking so, she must, I suppose, according
to the register, be accounted old. What can have preserved
her in this vigorous freshness, unless it be the aroma of the
oranges, nobody can tell. There she sits, a tall, stout, square,
upright figure, surmounted by a pleasant comely face, 'eyes as
black as a sloe, cheeks as round as an apple, and a complexion
as ruddy as a peach, as fine a specimen of a healthy, hearty
English tradeswoman, the feminine of John Bull,’' as one
would desire to see on a summer day.

One circumstance which has probably contributed not a
little to that want of change in her appearance, which makes
people who have been away from Belford for twenty years or
more declare that every thing was altered except Mrs. Hollis,
but that she and her shop were as if they had left it only
yesterday, is undoubtedly her singular adherence to one style
of dress — a style which in her youth must have had the effect
of making her look old, but which now, at a more advanced
period of life, suits her exactly. Her costume is very neat^
and as it never can have been at any time fashionable, has the
great advantage of never looking old-fashioned. Fancy a dark
gown, the sleeves reaching just below the elbow, cotton in
summer, stuff or merino in winter, with dark mittens to meet
the sleeves ; a white double muslin handkerchief outside of the^
gown, and a handsome shawl over that, pinned so as not to
meet in front ; a white apron, a muslin cap with a higbish
formal crown, a plaited muslin border trimmed witli narrow

106 HRS. HOLLIS^

edging (I dare say sbe never wore such a gewgaw as a bit of
net in her life), a plaited chinnum to match fastened to the
cap at either ear, and a bit of sober-coloured satin ribbon
pinned round, without bow or any other accompaniment ;
imagine all this delicately neat and clean, and you will have
some notion of Mrs. Hollis. There is a spice of coquetry in
this costume — at least there would be if adopted with malice
prepense, it is so becoming. But as she is probably wholly
unconscious of its peculiar allurement, she has the advantage
without the sin, the charm without the illness should
attend it.”

Nobody that knew Mrs. Hollis would suspect her of
coquetry, or of anything implying design or contrivance of
any sort. She was a thorough plain and simple-minded
woman, honest and open in word and deed, with an uncom-
promising freedom of speech, and a directness and singleness
of purpose which answer better, even as regards worldly pros-
perity, than the cunning or the cautious would allow them-
selves to believe. There was not a bolder talker in all Belford
than AIVs. Hollis, who saw in the course of the day people of
all ranks, from my lord in his coronet carriage, to the little
boys who came for ha’porths or penn’orths of inferior fruits
(judiciously preferring the liberality and civility of a great
shop to the cheatery and insolence of the inferior chapwoman,
who makes money by the poor urchins, and snubs them all
the while); from the county member’s wife to the milk-
woman’s daughter, everybody dealt with Mrs. Hollis, and with
all of them did Mrs. Hollis chat with a mixture of good
humour and good spirits, of perfect ease and perfect respect-
fulness, which made her one of the most popular personages
in the town. As a gossip, she was incomparable. She knew
everybody and everything, and everything about everybody;
had always the freshest intelligence and the newest news ; her
reports, like her plums, had the bloom on them, and she would
as much have scorned to palm upon you an old piece of scandal
as to send you strawberries that had been two days gathered.
Moreover, considering the vast quantity of chit-chat of which
she was the channel (for it was computed that the whole gossip
of Belford passed through her shop once in four-and-twenty
hours, like the blood through the heart), it was really astonish-
ing how authentic on the whole her intelligence was ; mistakes

THB FRUITERER.

107

and mis-statements of course there were, and a plentiful
quantity of exaggeration ; but of actual falsehood there was
comparatively little, and of truth, or of what approached to
truth, positively much. If one told a piece of news out of
Mrs. Hollis’s shop, it was almost an even wager that it was
substantially correct. And of what other gossip-shop can one
make a similar declaration ?

Chit-chat, however, eminently as she excelled in it, vras not
the sort of discourse which Mrs. Hollis preferred. Her taste
lay in higher topics. She was a keen politician, a zealous
partizan, a red-hot reformer, and to declaim against taxes and
tories, and poor-rates and ministers — subjects which she
handled as familiarly as her pippins — was the favourite
pastime of our fruiterer. Friend or foe made little difference
with this free-spoken lady, except that perhaps she preferred
the piquancy of a good-humoured skirmish with a political
adversary to the flatness of an agreement with a political ally ;
and it is saying not a little for tory good-humour, that her
antagonists listened and laughed, and bought her grapes and
oranges just as quietly after a diatribe of her fashion as before,
I rather think that they liked her oratory better than the
whigs did — it amused them.

A contested election turns her and her shop topsy-turvy.
One wonders liow she lives through the excitement, and how
she contrives to obtain and exhibit the state of the poll almost
as it seems before the candidates themselves can know the
numbers. It even puts her sober-suited attire out of coun-
tenance. Green and orange being the colours of her party,
she puts on two cockades of that livery, which suit as ill with
her costume as they would with that of a Quaker ; she hoists
a gay flag at her door, and sticks her shop all over with
oranges and laurel-leaves, so that it vies in decoration with the
member’s chair ; and in return for this devotion, the hand at
an election time make a halt of unusual duration before her
door (to the great inconvenience of the innumerable stage-
coaches and other vehicles which pass that well- frequented
corner, which, by the way, is the high road to London), and
the mob, especially that part of it which consists of little boys
and girls, with an eye to a dole of nuts or cherries, bestow
upon her almost as many cheers as they would inflict upon
the candidate himself.

108

MRS. HOLLISj

At these times Mr. Hollis (for there was such a personage^
short and thick and very civil) used to make his appearance
in the shop, and to show his adhesion to the cause by giving
a plumper to its champion ; on other occasions he was seldom
visible, having an extensive market-garden to, manage in the
suburbs of the town, and being for the most pari engaged in
trotting to and fro between Mount Pleasant and the Church-
yard corner, the faithful reporter of his wife’s messages and
orders. As you might be certain at any given hour to find
Mrs. Hollis at her post behind the counter — for little as she
looked like a person who lived without eating, she never seemed
to retire for the ordinary purposes of breakfast or dinner, and
even managed to talk scandal without it^ usual accompaniment
of tea — so sure were you to see her quiet steady husband (one
of the best-natured and honestest men in the place) on the
full trot from the garden to the shop, or the shop to the garden,
with a huge fruit-basket on one arm, and his little grand-
daughter Patty on the other.

Patty Hollis was the only daughter of our good fruiterers’
only son ; and her parents having died in her infancy, she had
been reared with the tenderness which is usually bestowed on
the only remaining scion of a virtuous and happy family in
that rank of life. Her grandfather especially idolized her ;
made her the constant companion of his many walks to the
garden on the side of Mount Pleasant, and installed her, be-
fore she was twelve years of age, leader of the fruit-pickers,
and superintendent of the gardeners : offices in which she so
conducted herself as to give equal satisfaction to the governors
and the governed, the prince and the people. Never was
vice-queen more popular^ or more fortunate, both in her sub-
jects and her territory.

It would have been difficult to find a prettier bit of ground
than this market-garden, with its steep slopes and romantic
hollows, its groves of fruit-trees, its thickets of berry-bushes,
and its carpets of strawberries. Quite shut out from the town
by the sudden and precipitous rise of the hill, it opened to a
charming view of the Kennet, winding through green mea-
dows, and formed in itself, with its troop of active labourers,
men, women, and girls, a scene of great animation ; and
during the time of the pearly pear-blossom, the snowy cherry,
and the rosy apple-blossom, and again in the fruit seasdh (for

the fruiterer.

109

next to flowers, fruit is the prettiest of all things), a scene of
great beauty. There was one barberry- bush, standing by
itself on the top of a knoll of strawberries, which was really a
picture.

But by far the most beautiful part of that pleasant scene
was the young fruit-gatherer, Patty Hollis. Her complexibn,
a deep rich brown, with lips like the fruit of her favourite
barberry- tree, and cheeks coloured like damask roses, suited
her occupation. It had a sweet sunniness that might have
beseemed a vintager, and harmonised excellently with the rich
tints of the cherries and currants with which her baskets were
so often over-brimmed. She had, too, the clear black eye,
with its long lashes, and the dark and glossy hair, which give
such brightness to a brown beauty. But the real charm of her
countenance was its expression. The smiles, the dimples —
the look of sweetness, of innocence, of perfect content, which
had been delightful to look upon as a child, were still more
delightful, because so much more rare, as she advanced towards
womanhood. They seemed, and they were, the result of a
character equally charming, frank, gentle, affectionate, and
gay.

When about seventeen, this youthful happiness, almost too
bright to last, was over-clouded by a great misfortune — the
death of her kind grandfather. Poor Patty's grateful heart
was almost broken. She had lost one who had loved her
better than he had loved anything in the world, or all the
world put together ; and she felt (as everybody does feel on
such an occasion, though with far less cause than most of us)
that her own duty and affection had never been 'half what his
fondness for her deserved, — that she had lost her truest and
most partial friend, and that she should never be happy again.
So deep was her affliction, that Mrs. Hollis, herself much
grieved, was obliged to throw aside her own sorrow to comfort
her. It was no comfort, but seemed rather an accession of
pain, to And that she was what, considering her station, might
be called an heiress, — that she would be entitled to some
hundreds on her marriage or her coming of age, and that the
bulk of the property (accumulated by honest industry and a
watchful but not mean frugality) was secured to her after the
death of her grandmother.

The** trustees to the property and executors of the will, who

110

MRS. HOLLIS,

were also’ joined with Mrs. Hollis in the guardianship of her
grand-daughter, were our old friend Stephen Lane, his near
neighbour and political ally, and another intimate acquaintance,
who, although no politician, was a person of great and de-
served influence with all those of his own rank who had come
in contact with his acuteness and probity.

Andrew Graham* was a Scotch gardener, and one of the
very best specimens of a class which unites, in a remarkable
degree, honesty, sobriety, shrewdness, and information. An-
drew had superadded to his Northern education, and an ap-
prenticeship to a Duke's gardener, the experience of eight
years passed as foreman in one of the great nurseries near
London; so that his idiom, if not his accent t, was almost
entirely Anglicised ; and wdien he came to Belford to superin-
tend the garden and hothouses of a very kind and very intelli-
gent gentleman, who preferred spending the superfluities of a
large income on horticultural pursuits, rather than in showier
and less elegant ways, he brought into the town as long a
head and as sound a heart as could be found in the county.
To Mr. Hollis (who had himself begun life as a gentleman's
gardener, and who thoroughly loved his art) his society was
exceedingly welcome ; and he judged, and judged rightly,
that to no one could he more safely confide the important
trust of advising and protecting two comparatively helpless
females, than to the two friends whom he had chosen.

Andrew vindicated his high opinion by advising Mrs. Hollis
to resign the garden, (which was held on lease of our other
good friend, Mr. Howard,) dispose of the shop (which was

♦ Of a Northern rlan I fanoy — not one of those Grahams of the “ land debate-
abte.” to whom 1 have the honour of being distantly related, and of w!)om the
Great Minstrel tells, that they stole with a laudable impartiality from both sides of
the border. Speaking of the old liarpcr, Albert Gricme, Sir Walter says —

** Well friended too, his hardy kin,

Whoever lost, were sure to win ;

They sought the beeves that made their broth
In Gotland and in England both.”

Lnj/ of the Lost Minstrel.

+ The accent is not so easily got quit of. A true-born Scot rarely loses that mark
of his country, let him live over so long on this side of the Twec<l ; and even a
Southern sometimes finds it sooner learnt than unlearnt. A gardener of my ac-
qaaintanco, the head man in a neighbouring nursery.ground, who S))oke as good
Iwotch as heart could desire, and was univorsaHy known .-imongst the frequenters
of the garden by the title of the “ Scotchman,” happened not only to have been
bom in Hertfordshire, but never to have travelled farther north than that county.
He had worked under a gardener from Aberdeen, .md had picked up the dialect.
Some people do catch peculiarities of tone. 1 myself once returned from a visit to
Nortluimberland, speaking the Doric of Tynedalp like a native, and, from love of
** the North countrie/* was reallyjorry when 1 lost the pretty Imperfection.

TUK FRUITERER.

Ill

her own), take a small house in the suburbs, and live on her
property ; and he urged this the rather as he suspected her
foreman of paying frequent visits to a certain beer.house,
lately established in the neighbourhood of Mount Pleasant,
and bearing the insidious sign of " The Jolly Gardener
because, as he observed, when an Englishman turned of
fifty once takes to the national vice of tippling, you hiay as
well look to raise pine-apples from cabbage-stocks, as expect
him to amend. He’ll go to the Jolly Gardener and the rest of
the lads will follow him, and the garden may take care of
itself. Part with the whole concern, my good lady, and ye
are safe — keep it, and ye’ll be cheated.”

Now this was good advice ; and it had the usual fate of
good advice, in being instantly and somewhat scornfully re-
jected. Mrs. Hollis had a high opinion of her foreman, and
could not and would not live out of her shop ; and as even
Patty pleaded for the garden, though she intimated some sus-
picion of its manager, the whole concern remained m g/aiu
quo f and Andrew, when he saw the smiles return to her lips,
and the bloom to her cheeks, and found how much her health
and happiness depended on her spending her days in the open
air, and in the employment she loved, ceased to regret that his
counsel had not been followed, more especially as the head
man, having more than verified his prediction, had been
discharged, and replaced, according to his recommendation,
by a young and clever labourer in the garden.

Sooner than Patty had thought it possible her cheerfulness
came back to her ; she half lived at Mount Pleasant, did all
she could to assist the new head man, who, although merely a
self-taught lad of the neighbourhood, did honour to Andrew’s
discrimination, and was beginning to discover (the god of love
only knows how) that to be, in a small way, an heiress W'as no
insupportable misfortune, when a vexation arising from that
very cause almost made her wish herself really the “ wild
wandering gipsy” which her poor grandfather had delighted
to call her.

The calamity in question was no trifle. Poor Patty was
unfortunate enough to be courted by Mr. Samuel Vicars, hair-
dresser and perfumer, in Bristol-street ; and to add to the
trial the suitor was the especial favourite of her grandmother,

112

MRS. HOLLISj

and his addresses were supported by all her influence and
authority.

Mr, Samuel Vicars was one of those busy-bodies who are
the pests of a country town. To be a gossip is perhaps per-
mitted to the craft, as inheritors of those old privileged dis-
seminators of news and scandal, the almost extinct race of
barbers ; but to be so tittle-tattling, so mischief-making, and
so malicious as Mr. Samuel Vicars, is not allowed to any-
body ; and the universal ill-will which such a style of con-
versation indicates is pretty certain to be returned in kind.
Accordingly, the young gentleman had contrived to gather
around himself as comfortable a mixture of contempt and
hatred as one would desire to see on a summer’s day.

It was a little, pert, dapper personage, as slight and flimsy
as his white apron or his linen jacket, with a face in which all
that was not curl and whisker was simper “ and smirk, a sharp
conceited voice, and a fluency, which as it might be accounted
a main cause of the thousand and one scrapes into which he
was perpetually getting, was almost as unlucky for himself as
for his hearers. He buzzed about one like a gnat, all noise
and sting and motion, and one wondered, as one does in the
case of that impertinent insect, how anything so insignificant
could be so troublesome.

Besides the innumerable private quarrels into which his
genius for evil-speaking, lying, and slandering,” could not
fail to bring him — quarrels the less easily settled, because
having a genuine love of litigation, an actual passion for the
importance and excitement of a lawsuit, he courted an action
for damages, in which he could figure as defendant on the one
hand, and blessed his stars for a horsewhipping, in which he
shone as plaintiff, on the other ; besides these private disputes,
he engaged with the most fiery zeal and the fiercest activity in
all the public squabbles of the place, and being unhappily, as
Stephen Lane used to observe, of his party, and a partisan
whom it was morally impossible to keep quiet, contrived to be
a greater thorn in the side of our worthy friend than all his
opponents put together. Woe to the cause which he advo-
cated ! The plainest case came out one mass of confusion
from the curious infelicity of his statements, and right seemed
wrong when seen through the misty medium of his astounding

THE FBUITERER. llS

and confounding verbiage. Stephen’s contempt for his ad-
herent’s orations was pretty much such as a staunch old hound
might evince when some young dog, the babbler of the pack,
begins to give tongue : — But, dang it,” cried the good
butcher, he brings the cause into contempt too ! It’s enough
to make a man sell himself for a slave,” added the poor pa-
triot, in a paroxysm of weariness and indignation, to hear
that chap jabber for three hours about freedom. And the
whole world can’t stop him. If he would but rat nqw ! ” ex-
claimed the ex-butcher. And doubtless Samuel would have
ratted, if anybody would have made it worth his while ; but
the other party knew the value of such an opponent, and
wisely left him in the ranks of opposition, to serve their cause
by speaking against it ; so Mr. Samuel Vicars continued a Re-
former.

It was this circumstance that first recommended him to the
notice of Mrs. Hollis, who, herself a perfectly honest and true-
hearted woman, took for granted that Samuel w^as as veracious
and single-minded as herself, believed all his puffs of his own
speeches, and got nearer to thinking him, what he thought
himself, a very clever fellow, than any other person whom he
had ever honoured by his acquaintance. Besides the political
sympathy, they had one grand tie in a common antipathy. A
certain Mrs. Deborah Dean, long a green-grocer in the Butts,
and even then taking higher ground than Mrs. Hollis thought
at all proper, had recently entered into partnership with a
nursery-man, and had opened a magnificent store for seeds,
plants, fruit, and vegetables, in Queen Street ; and although
the increasing size of Belford and the crowded population of
the neighbourhood were such as really demanded another
shop, and that at die corner of the churchyard continued to
have even more customers than its mistress could well manage,
yet she had reigned too long over all the fruitage of the town
to bear a sister near the throne and she hated Mrs. De-
borah (who besides was a blue ”) with a hatred truly femi-
nine— hot, angry, and abusive; and the oftending party
being, as it happened, a mild, civil, obliging woman, poor
Mrs. Hollis had had the misfortune to find nobody ready to
join in speaking ill of her until she encountered Samuel
Vicars, who poured the whole force of his vituperative elo^
quence on the unfortunate dame. Now Samuel, who had had

I

114 MRS. HOLLIS

9

sqme pecuniary dealings 'with her whilst she lived in his
neighbourhood — certain barterings of cabbages^ celery^ car-
rots^ and French beans, against combs and tooth-brushes, and
a Parisian front, which had led first to a disputed account, and
then to the catastrophe in which he most delighted, a lawsuit
—was charmed on his side to meet with what seldom came in
his way, a sympathising listener. He called every day to
descant on the dear subject, and feed Mrs. Hollis's hatred
with fresh accounts of her rival's insolence and prosperity ;
and in the course of his daily visits it occurred to him that
she was well to do in the world, and that he could not do a
better thing than to cast the eyes of affection on her pretty
granddaughter.

Samuel’s own affairs were exceedingly in want of a rich
wife. What with running after la chone publique, and neg-
lecting his own affairs — what with the friends that he lost
and the enemies that he gained by the use of that mischievous
weapon, his tongue — to say nothing of the many lawsuits in
which he was cast, and those scarcely less expensive that he
won — his concerns were in as much disorder as if he had
been a lord. A hairdresser’s is at the best a meagre business,
especially in a country town, and his had declined so much,
that his one apprentice, an idle lad of fourteen, and the three
or four painted figures, on which his female wigs were stuck
in the windows, had the large showy shop, with its stock of
glittering trumpery, pretty much to themselves ; so that
Samuel l^gan to pay most assiduous court, not to his fair in-
tended— for, pretty girl as Patty was, our Narcissus of the
curling irons was far too much enamoured of himself to dream
of falling in love with a pair of cherry cheeks — but to her
grandmother ; and having picked up at the Jolly Gardener
certain rumours of Mount Pleasant, which he related to his
patroness with much of bitterness and exaggeration, awakened
such a tempest of wrath in her bosom that she wrote a letter
to Mr. Howard, giving him notice that in six months she
should relinquish the garden, discharged her new foreman on
the spot, and ordered Patty to prepare to marry the hair-
dresser without let or delay.

Poor Patty! her only consolation was in her guardians.
Her first thought was of Andrew, but he was sure to have the
evil tidings from another quarter ; besides, of him there could

THB FRUITERER.

116

be no doubt ; her oiily fear Jwas of Stephen Lane. So, as
soon as she could escape from the Padrona’s scolding, and wipe
the tears from her own bright eyes, she set forth for the great
shop in the Butts.

Well, my rosebud I ” said the good butcher, kindly
chucking his fair ward under the chin ; what’s the news
w’ith you ? Why, you are as great a stranger as strawberries
at Christmas ! 1 thought you had taken root at Mount Plea-

sant, and never meant to set foot in the town again.”

Oh, Mr. Lane ! ” — began poor Patty, and then her
courage failed,* and she stopped suddenly and looked down

abashed ; — “ Oh ! Mr. Lane !

Well, what’s the matter inquired her kind guardian ;
are you going to be married, and come to ask my consent ? ”
Oh, Mr. Lane ! ” again sighed Patty.

^^Out with it, lass ! — never fear !*’ quoth Stephen.

“ Oh, Mr. Lane ! ” once more cried the damsel, stopping as
if spellbound, and blushing to her fingers* ends.

^^Well, Patty, if you can’t speak to a friend that has
dandled you in his arms, and your father before you, you*d
best send the lad to see what he can say for himself. I shan’t
be cruel, 1 promise you. Though you might do better in the
way of money, I would rather look to character. That’s what
tells in the long-run, and I like the chap.**

Oh, Mr, Lane, God forbid ! ** exclaimed Patty ; my
grandmother wants me to marry Samuel Vicars ! ”

^^Sam Vicars ! the woman’s mad !** ejaculated Stephen
She cannot be other' than demented,** observed Andrew,
who had just entered the shop, for she has discharged
Laurence Reid — the steadiest and cleverest lad that ever
came about a garden, a lad who might be taken for a Scotch-
man — and wants to marry Miss Patty to a loon of a hair-
dresser.**

Whom anybody would take for a Frenchman,** inter-
rupted the butcher ; and having thus summed up the cha-
racters of the two rivals in a manner that did honour no less
to their warm feelings than to their strong prejudices, the two
guardians and their fair ward, much comforted by the turn
the conversation had taken, began to consult as to their future
proceedings.

^^She must give up the garden, since she has sent Mr.,

I 2

116

MRS. HOLLIS^

Howard notice,” quoth Andrew ; hut that won’t much
signify. This is only the beginning of January ; but Christ-
mas being passed, the notice will date from Lady-day, so
that she’ll keep it till Michaelmas, and will have plenty of
opportunity to iqiss Laurence Reid’s care and skill, and
honesty ”

“ But poor Laurence, what will become of him ? ” inter-
posed his fair mistress : Laurence to be turned away at a
day’s warning, like a drunkard or a thief! IVhat will he do ? ”

J ust as a very industrious and very clever gardener always
does. He’ll prosper, depend upon it. And bfisides, my dear,
to tell ye a bit of a secret, your good friend Mr. Howard, who
likes Laurence so well, has given him an acre and a half of his
cottage allotments, in capital order, and partly stocked, which
happened to fall vacant just as it was wanted. And you must
wait quietly, my bonny lass, and see what time will do for ye.
Laurence is three* and-twenty, and ye are nineteen — ye have
a long life before ye — wait and see what’ll turn up. Mr.
Howard is one of the best men in the world, although he has
the ill luck to be a Tory,” pursued Andrew, with a sly glance
at Stephen.

Never a better, for all he had the misfortune to he born
on this side of the Tweed,” responded Stephen, returning the
glance, with one of his most knowing nods.

Mr. Howard is your staunch friend,” pursued Andrew ;
^ and as for your grandmother, she’s a good woman too, and
w'ill soon be sick of that jackanapes, if she be only left to find
him out herself. So go home, my bonny doo, and be com-
forted,” said the kind-hearted Scotchman, patting the round
cheek to which the colour and the dimples were returning
under the reviving influence of hope. **

Ay, get along home, rosebud,” added the equally kind
Englishman, chucking her under the chin, and giving her a
fatherly kiss, get along home, for fear they should miss you.
And as to being married to that whipper-snapper with hia
curls and his whiskers, why, if I saw the slightest chance of
such a thing. I’d take him between my finger and thumb, and
pitch him up to the top of St. Stephen’s tower before you
could say Jack Robinson I Get along, rosebud ! I’ll not see
thee made unhappy, I promise thee.”

And much consoled by these kind promises, poor Patty stole
back to the little shop at the corner of the church-yard.

THE PRlflTEttEIl.

117

The winter, the spring, and the summer, crept slowly by,
bringing with them a gradual amelioration of prospect to our
nutbrown maid. Time, as Andrew had predicted, had done
much to sicken Mrs. Hollis of the proposed alliance. Her
honest and simple nature, and her real goodness <^f heart, soon
revolted at Samuel’s bitterness and malice, and enduring
enmities. Her animosities, which vanished almost as she
.gave them utterance^, had no sympathy with such eternity of
haired. Even her rival and competitor, Mrs. Dean, had been
forgiven, as soon as she discovered that the world (her own
little world of Belford) had room enough for both, and that
by adding the superior sorts of vegetables to her stock, with
the very finest of which she was supplied through the medium
of Andrew Graham, she had actually increased the number of
her customers and the value of her business, which, in spite
of her having given notice of quitting the garden (a measure
which Patty suspected her of regretting), she had determined
to continue. She was weary, too, of his frivolity, his idleness
and his lies, and having taken upon her to lecture him on his
several sins of gadding, tattling, meddle-making and so forth,
even intimating some distrust of his oratorical powers and his
political importance, Mr. Samuel began to be nearly as tired
of his patroness as his patroness was of him ; so that, al-
though no formal breach had taken place. Fatty felt herself
nearly rid of that annoyance.

In the meanwhile, a new attraction, particularly interesting
to the gardening world, had arisen in Belford, in the shape of
a Horticultural Society. Nothing could be more beautiful
than the monthly shows of prize flowers, fruits, and vegetables
in the splendid Town-hall. All the county attended them,
and our country bell^ never showed to so much advantage as
side by side by their rivals the flowers, giving themselves up
with their whole hearts to a delighted admiration of the love-
liest productions of Nature. Andrew Graham was of course
one of the most successful competitors, and Mr. Howard one
of the most zealous and intelligent patrons of the society,
whilst even our friend Stephen took some concern in the
matter, declaring that good cabbage was no bad accompaniment
to gooil beef, and that every wearer of the blue apron, wdie-
ther butcher or gardener, had a claim to his affection — a
classification at which Andrew, who had a high veneration for

I 3

118

MBS. HOLLISj

the dignity of his art^ was not a little scandalised* Patty
from the first had been an enthusiastic admirer of the whole
plan, and Mrs. Hollis had been bribed into liking it (for old
people do not spontaneously take to novelties, especially in
their own pursuits,) by the assurance of Andrew that the
choice fruit and vegetables, the rare Carolina beans and green
Indian corn — the peas and strawberries so very early and so
very late, so large of size and delicate of flavour — the lettuces
and cauliflowers unmatched in whiteness and firmness, and a
certain new melon which combined all the merits of all the
melons hitherto known, came exclusively from one of the prize
exhibitors of the horticultural meeting, and should be reserved
exclusively for her, if she desired to purchase them. Farther
Mrs. Hollis was too discreet to inquire. There are secrets in
all trades, and none are more delicate than those regarding
the supply of a great fruit- shop. She knew that they did not
come from Andrew, for his character set suspicion at defiance ;
but all his friends might not be equally scrupulous. Silence
was safest.

So much had Patty been delighted with the prize-shows,
all of which she had attended, as was permitted to respectable
tradespeople in the afternoon when the gentry had returned
home to dinner, that she had actually excited in Mrs. Hollis
a desire to accompany her, and at every meeting the expe-
dition had been threatened, but had gone off, on the score of
weather, or of illness, or of business — or, in short, any one
of the many excuses which people who seldom go out make
to themselves to avoid the exertion, so that the last day ar-
rived and Yarrow” was still unvisited.” But that it was
the last was a powerful plea with Patty^ whose importunity,
seconded by a bright sunshiny September evening, and by the
gallantry of Mr. Lane, who arrived dressed in his best blue
coat and red waistcoat on purpose to escort her, proved irre-
sistible ; and Mrs. Hollis, leaving the shop in charge of a
trusty maid-servant, an alert shopboy, and a sedate and civil
neighbour (a sort of triple guardianship which she considered
necessary to supply her own single presence), gave to the in-
habitants of Belford the great and unprecedented novelty of
seeing her in the streets on a week-day. The people of Thibet
would hardly be more astonished at the sight of the Dalai
Lama.

THE FRUITERER

119

On reaching the Town-hall, she was struck even as much
as she intended to be with the fragrance and beauty of the
hothouse plants, the pines, grapes, peaches, and jars of flowers
from the gardens of the gentlemen's seats in the neighbour-
hood, shown as they were with all the advantages of tasteful
arrangement and the magical effect of the evening light.

What a many flowers have been invented since I was
young ! ’* was her natural thought, clothed in the very words
in which it passed through her mind.

She turned, however, from the long rows in which the con-
tributions of the members had been piled, to some smaller
tables at the top of the room, filled with the productions of
cottage exhibitors. One of these standing a little apart was
understood to be appropriated to an individual of this descrip-
tion, a half-taught labourer tilling his own spot of ground,
who had never in his life worked in any thing beyond a com-
mon market-garden, but who had won almost every prize for
which he had contended — had snatched the prizes not only
from competitors of his own class, but from the gardeners of
the nobility and gentry — had, in short, beaten everybody,
even Andrew Graham. To this table Mrs. Hollis turned with
peculiar interest — an interest not diminished when she beheld
there piled, with a picturesqueness that looked as if copied
from Van Huysum, the identical green Indian corn and Caro-
lina beans, the lettuces and cauliflowers, the late peas and
autumnal strawberries, and the newest and best of all possible
melons, with which she had been so mysteriously supplied,
flanked by two jars of incomparable dahlias, and backed by a
large white rose, delicate and regular as the rose de Meaux,
and two seedling geraniums of admirable beauty, labelled

The Mount Pleasarft " and The Patty," By the side of
the table stood Andrew Graham, Mr. Howard, and Lawrence
Reid.

The lad has beaten me, Mrs. Hollis, but I forgive him,'^
quoth our friend Andrew, smiling ; I told ye that his wares
were the best in the market."

And you must forgive me, Mrs. Hollis, for having made
him your successor in the Mount Pleasant garden," said Mr.
Howard. I have been building a pretty cottage there for
him and his wife, when he is fortunate enough to get one ;

I 4

120

BELLRS OP THE BALL-ROOH.

and now that I see you do walk out sometimes, if you would
but come and see it **

And if you would but let me give away the bride” —
added honest Stephen, seizing Patty’s hand, while the tears
ran down her cheeks like rain.

And if you would but let me manage the garden for you,
Mrs. Hollis, and be as a son to you” — said Laurence, plead-
ingly.

And vanquished at once by natural feeling and professional
taste — for the peas, melons, and strawberries had taken posses-
sion of her very heart, — Mrs. Hollis yielded. Tn less than a
month the young couple were married, and the very next day
Mr. Samuel Vicars ran away from his creditors, whom till
then he had pacified by the expectation of his making a
wealthy match, and was never heard of in Belford again.

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

THE WILL.

I NOW proceed to record some of the more aristocratic belles
of the Belford assemblies, the young ladies of the neighbour-
hood, who, if not prettier than their compeers of the town,
were at least more fashionable and more admired.

Nothing in the vrhole routine of country life seems to me
more capricious and unaccountable than the choice of a county
beauty. Every shire in the kingdom, from Brobdignaggiaii
York to Lilliputian Rutland, can boast of one. The existence
of such a personage seems as essential to the well-being of a
provincial community as that of the queen-bee in a hive ; and
except by some rare accident, when two fair sisters, for in-
stance, of nearly equal pretensions appear in similar dresses
at the same balls and the same archery meetings, you as sel-
dom see two queens of Brentford in the one society as the
other. Both are elective monarchies, and both tolerably des-
potic ; but so far I must say for the little winged people, that
one comprehends the impulse which guides them in the choice

THE WILL.

121

of a sovereign far better than the motives which influence
their brother-insects, the beaux : and the reason of this su-
perior sagacity in the lesser swarms is obvious. With them
the* election rests in a natural instinct, an unerring sense of
fitness, which never fails to discover with admirable discrimi-
nation the one only she who suits their purpose ; whilst the
other set of voluntary subjects, the wingless bipeds, are un-
luckily abandoned to their own wild will, and, although from
long habits of imitation almost as unanimous as the bees, seem
guided in their admiration by the merest caprice, the veriest
chance, and select their goddess, the goddess of beauty, blind-
fold— as the Bluecoat boys draw, or used to draw, the tickets
in a lottery.

Nothing is so difficult to define as the customary qualifica-
tion of the belle of a country assembly. Face or figure it cer-
tainly is not ; for take a stranger into the room, and it is at
least two to one but he will fix on twenty damsels prettier
than the county queen ; nor, to do the young gentlemen jus-
tice, is it fortune or connection ; for, so as the lady come
within the prescribed limits of county gentility (which, by the
way, are sufficiently arbitrary and exclusive), nothing more is
required in a beauty — ^whatever might be expected in4i wife ;
fortune it is not, still less is it rank, and least of all accom-
plishments. In short, it seems to me equally difficult to de-
fine what is the requisite and what is not ; for, on looking
back through twenty years to the successive belles of the Bel-
ford balls, I cannot fix on any one definite qualification. One
damsel seemed to me chosen for gaiety and good humour, a
merry, laughing girl ; another for haughtiness and airs ; one
because her father was hospitable, another because her mother
was pleasant; one became fashionable because related^to a
fashionable poet, whilst another stood on her own independent
merits as one of the boldest riders in the hunt, and earned her
popularity at night by her exploits in the morning.

Among the whole list, the one who commanded the most
universal admiration, and seemed to me to approach nearest
to the common notion of a pretty woman, was the high-born
and graceful Constance Lisle. Besides being a tall elegant
figure, with finely chiselled features and a pale but delicate
complexion, relieved by large dark eyes full of sensibility, and
a profusion of glossy black hair, her whole air and person

122

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

were eminently distinguished by that undefinable look of
fashion and high breeding, that indisputable stamp of superi-
ority, which, for want of a better word, we are content to call
style. Her manners were in admirable keeping with her^ip-
pearance. Gentle, gracious, and self-possessed ; courteous to
all and courting none, she received the flattery to which she
had been accustomed from her cradle as mere words of course,
and stimulated the ardour of her admirers by her calm non-
notice infinitely more than a finished coquette would have done
by all the agaccries of the most consummate vanity.

Nothing is commoner than the affectation of indiflPerence,
But the indifference of Miss Lisle was so obviously genuine,
that the most superficial coxcomb that buzzed about her could
hardly suspect its reality. She heeded admiration no more
than that queen of the garden, the lady lily, whom she so
much resembled in modest dignity. It played around her as
the sunny air of June around the snow-white flower, her com-
mon and natural atmosphere.

This was perhaps one reason for the number of beaux who
fluttered round Constance. It puzzled and piqued them.
They were unused to be of so little consequence to a young
lady, and could not make it out. Another cause might per-
haps be found in the splendid fortune which she inherited
from her mother, and which, independently of her expectations
from her father, rendered her the greatest match and richest
heiress in the county.

Richard Lisle, her father, a second son of the ancient family
of Lisle of Lisle-End, had, been one of those men born, as it
seems, to fortune, with whom every undertaking prospers
through a busy life. Of an ardent and enterprising temper,
at once impetuous and obstinate, he had mortally offended his
father and elder brother by refusing to take orders and to ac-
cept in due season the family livings, which time out of mind
had been the provision of the second sons of their illustrious
house. Rejected by his relations, he had gone out as an ad-
venturer to India, had been taken into favour by the head-
partner of a great commercial house, married his daughter,
entered the civil service of the Company, been resident at the
court of one native prince and governor of the forfeited terri-
tory of another, had accumulated wealth through all the
various means by which in India money has been found to

THE WIIiL.

125

make money, and finally returned to England a widower, with
an only daughter, and one of the largest fortunes ever brought
from the gorgeous East.

Very different had been the destiny of the family at home.
Old Sir Rowland Lisle (for the name was to be found in one
of the earliest pages of the baronetage), an expensive, osten-
tatious man, proud of his old ancestry, of his old place, and of
his old English hospitality, was exactly the person to involve
any estate, however large its amount ; and, when two contests
for the county had brought in their train debt and mortgages,
and he had recourse to horse-racing and hazard to deaden the
sense of his previous imprudence, nobody was astonished to
find him dying of grief and shame, a heart-broken and almost
ruined man.

His eldest son, Sir Everard, was perfectly free from either
of these destructive vices ; but he, besides an abundant portion
of irritability, obstinacy, and family pride, had one qudity
quite as fatal to the chance of redeeming his embarrassed for-
tunes as the electioneering and gambling propensities of his
father ; — to wit, a love of litigation so strong and predominant
that it assumed the form of a passion.

He plunged at once into incessant law-suits with creditor
and neighbour, and, in despite of the successive remonstrances
of his wife, a high-born and gentle-spirited woman, who died
a few years after their marriage, — of his daughter, a strong-
minded girl, who, moderately provided for by a female rela-
tion, married at eighteen a respectable clergyman, — and of
his son, a young man of remarkable promise still at college, —
he had contrived, by the time his brother returned from India,
not only to mortgage nearly the whole of his estate, but to get
into dispute or litigation with almost every gentleman for ten
miles round.

The arrival of the governor afforded some ground of hope
to the few remaining friends of the family. He was known
to be a man of sense and probity, and by no means deficient
in pride after hi& own fashion ; and no one doubted but a re-
conciliation would take place, and a part of the nabob’s rupees
be applied to the restoration of the fallen glories of Lisle-End.
With that object in view, a distant relation contrived to
produce a seemingly accidental interview at his own house
between the two brothers, who had had no sort of intercourse.

154 BKLLES OP THE BALL-ROOM,

except an interchan of cold letters on their father s death,
since the hour of their separation.

Never was mediation more completely unsuccessful. They
met as cold and reluctant friends ; they parted as confirmed
and bitter enemies. Both, of course, were to blame ; and
equally of course, each laid the blame on the other. Perhaps
the governor’s intentions might be the kindest. Undoubtedly
his manner was the worst : for, scolding, haranguing, and
laying down the law, as he had been accustomed to do in the
East, he at once offered to send his nephew to India with the
certainty of accumulating an ample fortune, and to relieve his
brother’s estate from mortgage, and allow him a handsome
income on the small condition of taking possession himself of
the family mansion and the family property — a proposal
coldly and stiffly refused by the elder brother,* who, without
deigning to notice the second proposition, declined his son’s
entering into the service of a commercial company, much in
the spirit and almost rn the words of Rob Roy, when the good
Baillie Nicol Jarvie proposed to apprentice his hopeful off-
spring to the mechanical occupation of a tveaver. The real
misfortune of the interview w’as, that the parties were too
much alike, both proud, both irritable, botli obstinate, and both
too much accustomed to deal with their inferiors.

The negotiation failed completely ; but the governor cling-
ing to his native place with a mixed feeling, compounded of
love for the spot and hatred to its proprietor, purchased at an
exorbitant price an estate close at hand, built a villa, and laid
out grounds with the usual magnificence of an Indian, bought
every acre of land that came under sale for miles around, was
shrewdly suspected of having secured some of Sir Everard’s
numerous mortgages, and proceeded to invest Lisle-End just as
formally as the besieging army sat down before the citadel of
Antwerp. He spared no pains to annoy his enemy ; defended
all the actions brought by his brother, the lord of many manors,
against trespassers and poachers ; disputed his motions at the
vestry ; quarrelled with his decisions on the bencli ; turned
whig because Sir Everard was a tory ; and set the whole parish
and half the county by the ears by his incessant squabbles.

Amongst the gentry, his splendid hospitality, his charming
daughter, and the exceeding unpopularity of his adversary,
who at one time or other had been at law with nearly all of

THE WILL.

125

them, commanded many partisans. But the common people,
frequently great sticklers for hereditary right, adhered for the
most part to the cause of their landlord — ay, even those
with whom he had been disputing all his life long. This
might be partly ascribed to their universal love for the young
squire Henry, whose influence among the poor fairly balanced
that of Constance among the rich ; but the chief cause was
certainly to be found in the character of the governor himsell*.

At first it seemed a fine thing to have obtained so powerful
a champion in every little scrape. They found, however, and
pretty quickly, that in gaining this new and magnificent pro-
tector they had also gained a master. Obedience was a neces-
sary of life to our Indian, who, although he talked about liberty
and equality, and so forth, and looked on them abstractedly as
excellent things, had no very exact practical idea of their
operation, and claimed in England the same absolute and un-
questioned dominion which he had exercised in the East.
Everything must bend to his sovereign will and pleasure,
from the laws of cricket to the laws of the land ; so that the
sturdy farmers were beginning to grumble, and his proteges,
the poachers, to rebel, when the sudden death of Sir Everard
put an immediate stop to his operations and his enmity. .

For the new Sir Henry, a young man beloved by every-
body, studious and thoughtful, but most amiably gentle and
kind, his uncle had always entertained an involuntary respect
— a respect due at once to his admirable conduct and his high-
toned and interesting character. They knew each other by
sight, but had never met until a few days after the funeral,
when the governor repaired to Lisle- End in deep mourning,
shook his nephew heartily by the hand, condoled ivith him on
his loss, begged to know in what way he could be of service
to him, and finally renewed the offer to send him out to India,
with the same advantages that would have attended his own
son, which he had previously made to Sir Everard. The
young heir thanked him with that smile, rather tender than
glad, which gave its sweet expression to his countenance,
sighed deeply, and put into his hands a letter which he had
found,*' he said, ^"amongst his poor father's papers, and
which must be taken for his answer to his uncle'9 generous
and too tempting offers."

You refuse me then?" asked the governor.

126

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

Read that letter, and tell me if I can do otherwise.
Only read that letter/* resumed Sir Henry ; and his uncle,
curbing with some difficulty his natural impatience, opened
and read the paper. •

It was a letter from a dying father to a beloved son, con-
juring him by the duty he had ever shown to obey his last in-
junction, and neither to sell, let, alienate, nor leave Lisle-
End ; to preserve the estate entire and undiminished so long
as the rent sufficed to pay the interest of the mortgages ; and
to live among his old tenantry in his own old halls so long as
the ancient structure would yield him shelter. “ Do this, my
beloved son,** pursued the letter, and take your father's
tenderest blessing ; and believe that a higher blessing will
follow on the sacrifice of interest, ambition, and worldly en-
terprise, to the will of a dying parent. You have obeyed my
injunctions living — do net scorn them dead. Again and
again 1 bless you, prime solace of a life of struggle — my
dear, my dutiful son f**

Could I disobey ? ** inquired Sir Henry, as his uncle re-
turned him the letter ; could it even be a question ?

“No !** replied the governor peevishly. “But to mew
you up with the deer and the pheasants in this wild old park,
to immure a fine, spirited lad in this huge old mansion along
with family pictures and suits of armour, and all for a whim,
a crotchet, which can answer no purpose upon earth — it*s
enough to drive a man mad ! **

“ It wiU not be for long,** returned Sir Henry, gently.

Short as it is, my race is almost run. And then, thanks to
the unbroken entail — the entail which 1 never could prevail
to have broken, when it might have spared him so much
misery — the park, mansion, and estate, even the old armour
and the family pictures, will pass into much better hands —
into yours. And Lisle-End will once more flourish in splen-
dour and hospitality.”

The young baronet smiled as he said this ; but the go-
vernor, looking on his tail, slender figure and pallid cheek,
felt that it was likely to be true, and, wringing his hand in
silence, was about to depart, when Sir Henry begged him to
remain a moment longer.

I have still one favour to beg of you, my dear uncle —
one favour which I may beg. When last I saw Miss Lisle

THE WILL.

127

at the house of my sister Mrs. Beauchamp (for I have twice
accidentally had the happiness to meet her there), she ex-
pressed a wish that you had such a piece of water in your
grounds as that at the east end of the park, which luckily
adjoins your demesne. She would like, she said, a pleasure-
vessel on that pretty lake. Now I may not sell, or let, or
alienate — but surely I may lend. And if you will accept
this key, and she will deign to use as her own the Lisle-£nd
mere, I need not, I trust, say how sacred from all intrusion
from me or mine the spot would prove, or how honoured I
should feel myself if it could contribute, however slightly, to
her pleasure. Will you tell her this ? ”

‘‘ You had better come and tell her yourself.”

"^No! Oh no!”

Well, then, I suppose I must.”

And the governor went slowly home whistling, not for
want of thought,” but as a frequent custom of his when any
thing vexed him.

About a month after this conversation, the father and
daughter were walking through a narrow piece of woodland^
which divided the highly ornamented gardens of the governor,
with their miles of gravel-walks and acres of American bor-
ders, from the magnificent park of Lisle-£nd. The scene
was beautiful, and the weather, a sunny day in early May,
showed the landscape to an advantage belonging, perhaps, to
no other season : on the one hand, the gorgeous shrubs, trees,
and young plantations of the new place, the larch in its ten-
derest green, lilacs, laburnums, and horse-chestnuts, in their
flowery glory, and the villa, with its irregular and oriental
architecture, rising above all ; on the other, the magnificent
oaks and beeches of the park, now stretching into avenues,
now clumped on its swelling lawns (for the ground was re-
markable for its inequality of surface), now reflected in the
clear water of the lake, into which the woods sometimes ad-
vanced in mimic promontories, receding again into tiny bays,
by the side of which the dappled deer lay in herds beneath the
old thorns ; whilst, on an eminence, at a considerable distance,
the mansion, an ancient and magnificent structure of great
extent and regularity, stood silent and migeslic as a pyramid
in the desert. The spot through which they were passing had
a character of extraordinary beauty, yet strikingly different

l!£8 BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

from either scene. It was a wild glen^ through which an ir-
regular footpath led to the small gate in the park, of which
Sir Henry had sent Constance tlie key ; the shelving banks on
either side clothed with furze in the fullest blossom, which
scented the air with its rich fragrance, and would almost have
dazzled the eye with its golden lustre but for a few scattered
firs and hollies, and some straggling clumps of the green and
feathery birch. The nightingales were singing around, the
wood-pigeons cooing overhead, and the father and daughter
passed slowly and silently along, as if engrossed by the sweet-
ness of the morning and the loveliness of the scene.

They were thinking of nothing less ; as was proved by the
first question of the governor, who, always impatient of any
pause in conversation, demanded of his daughter what an-
swer he was to return to the offer of Lord Fitzallan.’*

A courteous refusal, my dear father, if you please,** an-
swered Constance.

“ But I do not please,** replied her father, with his Grossest
whistle. Here you say No ! and No ! and No I to every-
body, instead of marrying some one or other of these young
men who flock round you, and giving me the comfort of
seeing a family of grandchildren about me in my old age. No
to this lord ! and No to that ! I verily believe, Constante,
that you mean to die an old maid.**

I do not expect to live to be an old maid,** sighed Con-
stance ; but nothing is so unlikely as my marrying.**

‘‘^Whew!** ejaculated the governor. So she means to
die, as well as her cousin ! What has put that notion into
your head, Constance ? Are you ill ? *'

Not particularly,** replied the daughter. But yet I am
persuaded tliat my life will be a short one. And so, my dear
father, as you told me the other day that now that 1 am of
age I ought to make my will, I have just been following your
advice.**

Oh ! that accounts for your thinking of dying. Every-
body after first making a will expects not to survive above a
week or two. I did not myself, I remember, some forty years
ago, when, having scraped a few hundreds together, I thought
it a duty to leate them to somebody. But I got used to the
operation as I became richer and older. Well^ 'Constance !
you have a pretty little fortune to bequeath^ — about three

THB VILL. 129

hundred thousand pounds, as I take it. What have you done
■with your money ? — not left it to me, I hope !”

No, dear father ; yoii desired me not."

That's right. But whom have you made your heir ?
Your maid, Nannette.^ or your lap-dog, Fido? — they are
your prime pets — or the County Hospital ? or the Literary
Fund ? or the National Gallery ? or the British Museum ? —
eh, Constance ? ”

“None of these, dear father. I have left my property
where it will certainly be useful, and I think well used — to
my cousin Henry of Lisle-End."

“ Her cousin Henry of Lisle-End ! " re-echoed the father,
smiling, and then sending forth a short loud whistle, eloquent
of pleasure and astonishment. “ So, so ! Pier cousin Henry!”

“But keep my secret, I conjure you, dear father !" pur-
sued Constance, eagerly.

“ Her cousin Henry I ” said the governor to himself, sit-
ting down on the side of the bank to calculate : “ her cousin
Henry I And she may he queen of Lisle End, as this key
proves, queen of the lake, and the land, and the land’s master.
And the three hundred thousand pounds will more than clear
away the mortgages, and 1 can take care of her jointure and
the younger children. I like your choice exceedingly, Con-
stance,” continued her father, drawing her to him on the bank*

“ Oh, my dear father, I beseech you keep my secret 1”

“ Yes, yes, we’ll keep the secret quite as long as it shall be
necessary. Don't blush so, my charmer, for you have no
need. Let me see — there must be a six months' mourning
— but the preparations may be going on just the same. And,
in spite of my foolish brother and his foolish will, my Con-
stance will be lady of Lisle-End.”

And within six months the wedding did take place ; and,
if there could be a happier person than the young bridegroom
or his lovely bride, it was the despotic but kind-hearted
governor.

K

130

THE GREEK PliATS.

THE GREEK PLAYS.

After speaking of the excellent air and healthy situation of
Belford, as well as its centrical position with regard to Bath,
Southampton, Brighton, and Oxford, and its convenient dis-
tance from the metropolis, the fact of its abounding in board-
ing-schools might almost he assumed ; since in a country town
with these recommendations you are as sure to find a colony
of schoolmasters and schoolmistresses, as you are to meet with
a rookery in a grove of oaks. It is the natural habitation of
tlie species.

Accordingly all the principal streets in Belford, especially
the different entrances to the town, were furnished with clas-
sical, commercial, and mathematical academies for young gen-
tlemen, or polite seminaries for young ladies. Showy and
spacious-looking mansions they were, for the most part, gene-
rally a little removed from the high road, and garnished with
the captivating titles of Clarence House, Sussex House, York
House, and Gloucester House ; it being, as every one knows, the
approved fashion of the loyal fraternity of schoolmasters to call
their respective residences after one or other of the Princes,
dead or alive, of the royal House of Brunswick. Not a hundred
yards could you walk without stumbling on some such rural
academy ; and you could hardly proceed half a mile on any
of the main roads without encountering a train of twenty or
thirty pretty, prim misses, arranged in orderly couplets like
steps in a ladder, beginning with the shortest, and followed
by two or three demure and neatly-arrayed governesses ; or
some more irregular procession of straggling boys, for whom
the wide footpath was all too narrow, some loitering behind,
some scampering before, some straying on one side, some on
the other — dirty, merry, untidy, and unruly, as if Eton \
or Westminster, or the London University itself, had the
honour of their education : nay, if you chanced to pass the

* Ev^body rememben the poet Gray*« description of the youthful members

oftfaeanftocracy, the future peers and incipient senators, at Eton: ** dirty boys
playing at cricket.**

THE GREEK PLATS.

131

Lancasterian School, or the National School, towards four in
the evening or twelve at noon, you might not only witness the
turbulent outpouring of that most boisterous mob of small
people, with a fair prospect of being yourself knocked down,
or at best of upsetting some urchin in the rush (the chance of
playing knocker or knockee being almost even) ; but might
also, if curious in such matters, have an opportunity of de-
ciding whether the Dissenters under Mr. Lancaster s system,
or the Church of England children under Dr. Beirs, succeeded
best in producing a given quantity of noise, and whether the
din of shouting boys or the clamour of squalling girls, in the
ecstatic uproariousness of their release from the school-room,
be the more intolerable to ears^of any delicacy.

Besides these comparatively modern establishments for edu-
cation, Belford boasted two of those old picturesque found-
ations, a blue-coat school for boys, and a green-school for
girls, — proofs of the charity and piety of our ancestors, who,
on the abolition of monasteries, so frequently bestowed their
posthumous bounty on endowments for the godly bringing up
of poor children, and whose munificence, if less extended in
the ^numbers taught, was so much more comprehensive and
complete with regard to the selected objects; including not
only bed and board, and lodging and clothing, during the
period of instruction, but even apprentice fees for placing
them out when they had been taught the simple and useful
knowledge which their benefactors thought necessary. For
my own part, zealous as I confess myself to be for the widest
diffusion of education possible, 1 cannot help entertaining also
a strong predilection for these limited and orderly charity-
schools, where good principles and good conduct, and the
value of character, both in the children and their teachers,
form the first consideration. I certainly do not like them the
less for the pleasant associations belonging to their picturesque
old-fashioned dress — the long-waisted bodies and petticoat-
like skirt of the bluecoat boys, their round* tasselled caps, and
monkish leathern girdles ; or the little green stuff gowns of
the girls, with their snow-white tippets, their bibs and aprons,
and mobs. I know nothing prettier than to view on a Sunday
morning the train of these primitive-looking little maidens
(the children of Mr. West’s charity ") pacing demurely*
down the steps of their, equally picturesque and old-fashioned

K 2

1S2

THE GREEK PLATS.

dwelling, on their way to church, the house itself a complete
relique of the domestic architecture of Elizabeth’s day, in ex-
cellent preservation, and the deep bay-windows adorned with
geraniums (the only modem things about the place), which
even my kind friend Mr. Foster need not be ashamed to own.
1 doubt if any body else in the county could surpass them.

But the school of schools in Belford, that which was pre-
eminently called Belford School, of which the town was justly
proud, and for which it was justly famous, was a foundation
of a far higher class and character, but of nearly the same date
with the endowments for boys and girls which I have just
mentioned.

Belford School was one of those free grammar-schools
which followed almost as a matter of course upon the Reform-
ation, when education, hitherto left chiefly to the monks and
monasteries, was taken out of their hands, and placed under
the care of the secular clergy ; — the master, necessarily in
orders, and provided with testimonials and degrees, being
chosen by the corporation, who had also the power of sending
the sons of poor townsmen, for gratuitous instruction, and the
privilege of electing ofl* a certain number of boys to scholar-
ships and fellowships at various colleges in Oxford. The
master’s salary was, as usual, small, and his house large, so
that the real remuneration of the gentlemen who conduct
these grammar-schools — one of which is to be found in al-
most every great town in England — where the greater part
of our professional men and country gentry have been edu-
cated, and from whence so many eminent persons have been
sent forth, depends almost wholly upon the boarders and day-
acholars not on the foundation, whilst the number of boarders
is of course contingent on the character and learning of the
master.

And it was to the high character, the extensive learning,
and the well-merited popularity of the late venerable master,
that Belford School was indebted for being at one period next,
perhaps, to Rugby, in point of numbers, and second to none
in reputation.

The school was the first thing shown to strangers. Prints
of the school hung up in every shop, and engravings and
drawings of the same cherished spot might be met in many
mansions far and near. East and west, north and south — in

THE GREEK PLAYS.

133

London^ in India^ abroad and at home, were those pictures
seen — frequently accompanied hy a fine engraving of the
master, whose virtues had endeared to his pupils those boyish
recollections which, let poets talk as they will, are hut too
often recollections of needless privation, repulsed affection, and
unrewarded toil.

Belford School was in itself a pretty object — at least I,
who loved it almost as much as if 1 had been of the sex that
learns Greek and Latin, thought it so. It was a spacious
dwelling, standing in a nook of the pleasant green called the
Forbury, and parted from the churchyard of St. Nicholas by
a row of tall old houses, in two or three of which the under-
masters lived, and, the doctor’s mansion being overflowing,
received boarders, for the purpose of attending the school.
There was a little court before the door with four fir-trees,
and at one end a projecting bay-window, belonging to a very
long room, or rather gallery, lined with a noble collection of
books, several thousand volumes, rich, not merely in classical
lore, but in the best editions of the best authors in almost
every language.

In the sort of recess formed by this window the dear
Doctor (the Doctor par excellence^ generally sat out of school,
hours. There he held his levees, or his drawing-rooms (for
ladies were by no means excluded) — finding time, as your
very busy for in other words, your very active) people so often
do, to keep up with all the topics of the day, from the gravest
politics (and the good Doctor was a keen politician) to the
lightest pleasantry. In that long room, too, which would al-
most have accommodated a mayor’s feast, his frequent and
numerous dinner-parties were generally held. It was the only
apartment in that temple of hospitality large enough to satisfy
his own open heart ; and the guests who had a general invita-
tion to his table would almost have filled it.

His person had an importance and stateliness which an-
swered to the popular notion of a schoolmaster, and certainly
contributed to the influence of his manner over his pupils.
So most undoubtedly did his fine countenance. It must have
been a real punishment to have disturbed the serenity of those
pale placid features, or the sweetness of that benevolent smile.

Benevolence was, after all, his prime characteristic. Full
of knowledge, of wisdom, and of learning, an admirable

K 3

134

THE GREEK PLAYS.

schoolmaster*, aod exemplary in every relation of life, his
singular kindness of heart was his most distinguishing quality.
Nothing could ever warp his candour — that candour which is
so often the wisest justice, — or stifle his charity; and his
pardon followed so immediately upon an offence, or an injury,
that people begin to think that there was no great merit in
such placability — that it was an affair of temperament, and
that he forgave because he could not help forgiving — just as
another man might have resented. His school was of course
an unspeakable advantage to the town ; but of all the benefits
which he daily conferred upon his neighbours, his friends, his
pupils, and his family, by very far the greatest was his
example.

If he were beloved by his pupils, his sweet and excellent
wife was almost idolized. Lovelier in middle age than the
lovely daughters (a wreath of living roses) by whom she was
surrounded ; pure, simple, kind, and true, no human being
ever gathered around ' her more sincere and devoted affection
than the charming lady of Bellbrd School. Next to his own
dear mother, every boy loved her ; and her motherly feeling,
her kindness, and her sympathy seemed inexhaustible ; she
had care and love for all. There is a portrait of her too ; but
it does not do her justice. The pictures that are really like
her, are the small Madonnas of Raphael, of which there are
two or three in the Stafford Gallery : they have her open fore-
head, her divine expression, her simple grace. Raphael was
one of the few even of the old masters who knew how to
paint such women ; who could unite such glowing beauty to
such transparent purity !

Perhaps one of the times at which the doctor was seen to
most advantage was on a Sunday afternoon in his own school-
room, where, surrounded by his lovely wife, his large and pro-
mising family, his pupils and servants, and occasionally by a
chosen circle of friends and guests, he was accustomed to per-
form the evening service, two of the elder boys reading the
lessons, and he himself preaching, with an impressiveness
which none that ever heard him can forget, those doctrines of
peace and good-will, of holiness, and of charity, of which his
wWe life was an illustration.

It is, however, a scene of a different nature that I have un-

* ** He teach eth l)e«t who knoweth best.** Cary's Pindar.

THE OBEEK PLAYS.

135

dertaken to chronicle ; and 1 must hasten to record, so far as
an unlettered woman may achieve that presumptuous task, the*
triumphs of Sophocles and Euripides on the boards of Bel-
ford School.

The foundation was subject to a triennial visitation of the
heads of some of the houses at Oxford, for the purpose of
examining the pupils, and receiving those elected in scholar-
ships in their respective colleges ; and the examination had
been formerly accompanied, as is usual, by Greek and Latin
recitations, prize-poems, speeches, &c. ; but about thirty years
back it occurred to the good doctor, who had a strong love of
the drama, knew Shakspeare nearly as well as he knew Homer,
and would talk of the old actors, Garrick, Henderson*, Mrs,
Yates, and Miss Farren, until you could fancy that you had
seen them, that a Greek drama, well got up, would improve
the boys both in the theory and practice of elocution, and in
the familiar and critical knowledge of the language ; that it
would fix their attention and stimulate their industry in a
manner far beyond any common tasks or examinations ; that
it would interest their parents and amuse their friends ; that
the purity of the Greek tragedies rendered them (unlike the
Latin comedies which time has sanctioned at Westminster)
unexceptionable for such a purpose ; and that a classical exhi-
bition of so high an order would be worthy of his own name
in the world of letters, and of the high reputation of his
establishment.

Hence arose the Greek plays of Belford School.

Everything conduced to the success of the experiment. It
so happened that the old school-room — not then used for its
original destination, as the doctor had built a spacious apart-
ment for that purpose, closer to his own library — was the
very place that a manager would have desired for a theatre ;
being a very long and large room, communicating at one end
with the school-house, and opening at the other into the en-
trance to the Town-hall, under which it was built. The end

•

* Henderson was his favourite. So, from MS. letters in my possession, I find
him to haycl>een, with Captain Jephson, the author of the “ Count De Narbonne,”
the “ Italian I.,ovcr,” &c. and the friend both of Garrick and of John Kemble.
Intellect seems to have been his remarkable characteristic, and that quality which
results from intellect, but does not always belong to it — taste. Wnat an artist
must that man have been who plaved llamlct and Falstaff on following nights,
beating his young competitor Kcnible in tlie one part, and his celebrated prede-
cessor Quill in the other .’ His early death was perhaps the greatest loss that the
stage ever sustained.

K 4

136 TBE GREEK PLAYS.

next the house^ excellently fitted up with scenery and proper-
ties, and all the modern accessories of the drama, formed the
stage, whilst the rest of the room held the audience ; and a
prettier stage, whether for public or private theatricals, hath
sddom been seen. It was just the right size, just a proper
frame for the fine tragic pictures it so often exhibited. If it
had been larger, the illusion which gave the appearance of men
and women to the young performers would have been de-
stroyed, and the effect of the grouping much diminished by
the comparative unimportance which space and vacancy give
to the figures on the scene. That stage would be the very
thing for the fashionable amusement of tableaux ; but even
then they would want the presiding genius of our great master,
who, although he pretended to no skill in the art, must have
had a painter's eye, for never did I see such grouping, aided
as it was by the utmost splendour and accuracy in the classical
costumes. Oh for an historical painter ! was Mr. Bowles
the poet’s exclamation, both at the death and the unveiling of
Alcestis ; and I never saw any one of the performances in
which a young artist would not have found a seriea of models
for composition and expression.

Besides the excellence of the theatre, the audience, another
main point in the drama, was crowded, intelligent, and enthu-
siastic. The visitors from Oxford, and the mayor and corpora-
tion of Belford, (in their furred gowns, — poor dear aldermen,
I wondered they survived the heat ! — but I suppose they did,
for I never remember to have heard of any coroner’s inquest
at Belford, of which the verdict was Died of the Greek
plays,'’) these, the grandees of the University and the Borough,
attended ex-officio ; the parents and friends of the performers
were drawn there by the pleasanter feelings of affection and
pride, and the principal inhabitants of the town and neigh -
bourhooil crowded to the theatre for a double reason — they
liked it, and it was the fashion.

Another most delighted part of the audience consisted of
the former pujflls of the school, the doctor’s old scholars, who
had formed themselves into a sort of club, meeting in the
winter in London, and in the autumn at one of the principal
inns at Belford, whither they thronged from all parts of En-
gland^ and where, especially at the time of the triennial plays,
they often stayed days and weeks, to assist at the rehearsals

TUB QRE^K PLAYS.

137

and partake of the social gaiety of that merry time. For
weeks before the plays, the doctor’s ever-hospi table house was
crowded with visitors ; his sons stealing a short absence from
their several professions, with sometimes a blushing bride
(for, in imitation of their father, they married early and hap-
pily) ; fair young friends of his fair daughters ; distinguished
foreigners ; celebrated scholars ; nephews, nieces, cousins, and
friends, without count or end. It was one scene of bustle and
gaiety ; the gentle mistress smiling through it all, and seeming
as if she had nothing to do but to make her innumerable guests
as happy and as cheerful as she was herself. No one that en-
tered the house could doubt her sincerity of welcome. However
crowded the apartments might be, the gentle hostess had
heart-room for all.

A pleasant scene it was for weeks before the play, since of
all pleasures, especially of theatrical pleasures, the preparation
is the most delightful ; and in these preparations there was a
more than common portion of amusing contrast and diverting
difficulties. Perhaps the training of the female characters was
the most fertile in fun. Fancy a quick and lively boy learn-
ing to tread mincingly, and carry himself demurely, and move
gently, and curtsey modestly, and speak softly, and blush, and
cast down his eyes, and look as like a girl as if he had all his
life worn petticoats. Fancy the vain attempt, by cold cream
and chicken-skin gloves to remove the stain of the summer's
sun, and bring the coarse red paws into a semblance of femi-
nine delicacy ! Fancy the rebellion of the lad, and his hatred
of stays, and his horror of paint, and the thousand droll inci-
dents that, partly from accident and partly from design, were
sure to happen at each rehearsal, (the rehearsal of an English
tragedy at a real theatre is comical enough. Heaven knows !)
and it will not be astonishing that, in spite of the labour re-
quired by the study of so many long speeches, the performers
as well as the guests behind the scenes were delighted with the
getting-up of the Greek plays.

And in spite of their difficulties with the feminine costume,
never did I see female characters more finely represented than
by these boys. The lads of SJiakspeare's days who played his
Imogenes, and Constances, and Mirandas, could not have exr
ceeded the Alcestises, and Electras, and Jocastas of Belford

138

THE GREEK PLAYS.

School. And the male characters were almost equally perfect.
The masterpieces of the Greek stage were performed not only
with a critical accuracy in the delivery of the text, but with
an animation and fervour which marked all the shades of feel-
ing, as if the young actors had been accustomed to think and
to feel in Greek. The effect produced upon the audience was
commensurate with the excellence of the performance. The
principal scenes were felt as truly as if they had been given in
English by some of our best actors. Even the most unlettered
lady was sensible to that antique grace and pathos, and under-
stood a beauty in the words, though not the words.

Another attraction of these classical performancea|was the
English prologue and epilogue by which they were preceded
and followed. These w'ere always written by old pupils of
the school, and I cannot resist the temptation of transcribing
one from the pen of the most distinguished person whom
that school has ever produced. Need I add the name of my
friend, Mr. Serjeant Talfourd ?

PROLOGUE TO THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES.
.SPOKKX OCT. 1827.

“ Kind friends, with genial plaudits may we close
Our feeble miniature of mighty woes ?

Or think you that we aim to strike, too late.
With crimes antique, and p.^8^ion.s out of date
No : altered but in form life’s stage they fill, .
And all our characters arc extant still.

“ First, Hoculia ; — nay, there my scheme’s too bold,
I gnint — no lady in these time? grows old ;

But not in vain you’ll seek the ancient rage
In some starch vixen of * a certain age/

Thus if you chance, though fair in her regards,

At whist her partner, to forget the cards,

.Stop scand.irs torrent with a word of |)eace,

Ofl'end her cat, or compliment her niece ;

Beneath her rouge when deeper colours rise.
Remember Hecuba — and mind your eyes.

** Still would the mild Uly.sscs win the town,

His armour barter’d for a Counsel’s gown :
Severest truths, he never practised, teach.

And be profuse of wealth and life — in speech.'

Or on the hustings gain th’ inspiring cheer ; —

But hold ! we own no politicians here.

The radiant colours Ins wreathes in heaven, !

May but be foes at most one year in seven.

And mingling brighter from the generous strife]
Shed rainbow hues on passion-wearied life.

THE GREEK PLAYS.

139

“ What I if the Thracian*# railt we rareir jtee—
Thousands for gain were lately matf as he ;

When Trade held strange alliance with Konoance,
And Fancy lent delusive shades to Chance—

Bade golden visions hover o*cr the Strand,

And made ’Change-alley an enchanted land.

There the rapt merchant dreamt of Sinbad’s valo,
And catalogued in thought its gems for sale ;

There dived to Vigo’s time-unalter’d caves
And ransom’d millions from the courteous waves.
Still might some daring band their arts employ.

To search for Priam’s treasures hid in Troy —

For gold, which Polymnestor did notfind^

But only missed, because the rogue was blind.

Or, since our classic robbers dote on Greece,
paper-sails to win her Golden Fleece ;

And bid her hopes, revived by civic pity.

Flash in a loan to fade in a committee.

“ Nor need we here Imagination’s aid
To own the virtue of the Trojan maid.

Would any ask where courage meek as hers
Truth’s saddest tests to garish joy prefers.

Where liovc earth’s fragile clay to heaven allies.
And life prolong’d is one sweet sacrifice —

Where gentlest wisdom waits to cheer and guide ye
Husbands and lovers, only look beside ye.!

** And if our actors gave but feeble hints
Of the old Bard’s imperishable tints,

Yet, if with them some classic grace abide.

And bid no British thought or throb subside,

Bight well we know your fondest wish you gain.
We have not toiled, nor you approved in.vaiH.”

END OF •THE FIRST VOLUME,

PETER JENKINS) THE POlfLTBRER.

141

VOLUME THE SECOND.

PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER.

As I prophesied in the beginning of this book, so it fell out :
Mr. Stej^en Lane became parish-officer of Sunham. I did
not, however, foresee that the matter would be so easily and
so speedily settled; neither did he. Mr. Jacob Jones, the
ex-ruler of that respectable hamlet, was a cleverer person than
we took him for ; and, instead of staying to be beaten, sagely
preferred to evacuate Flanders,” and leave the enemy in
undisputed possession of the field of battle. He did not even
make his appearance at the vestry, nor did any of his partisans.
Stephen had it all his own way ; was appointed overseer, and
found himself, to his great astonishment, carrying all his
points, sweeping away, cutting down, turning out, retrenching,
and reforming so as never reformer did before ; — for in the
good town of Belford, although eventually triumphant, and
pretty generally successful in most of his operations, he had
been accustomed to play the part, not of a minister who ori-
ginates, but of a leader of opposition who demolishes measures ;
in short, he had been a sort of check, a balance-wheel in the
borough machinery, and never dreamt of being turned into a
main-spring ; so that, when called upon to propose his own
plans his success disconcerted him not a little. It was so
unexpected, and he himself so unprepared for a catastrophe
which took from him his own dear fault-finding ground, and
placed him in the situation of a reviewer, who should be re-
quired to write a better book than the one under dissection, in
the place of cutting it up.

Our good butcher was fairly posed, and, what was worse,
his adversary knew it. Mr. Jacob Jones felt his advantage,
returned with all his forces (consisting of three individuals,
like a three-tailed bashaw”) to the field which he had
abahdoned, and commenced a series of skirmishing guerilla

142

PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER^

warfare — affairs of posts as it were — which went near to
make his ponderous, and hitherto victorious enemy, in spite
of the weight of his artillery and the number and discipline
of his troops, withdraw in his turn from the position which
be found it so painful and so difficult to maintain. Mr. Jacob
Jones was a great man at a quibble. He could not knock
down like Stephen Lane, but he had a real talent for that sort
of pulling to pieces which, to judge from the manner in which
all children, before they are taught better, exercise their little
mischievous fingers upon dowers, would seem to be instinctive
in human nature. Never did a spoilt urchin of three years
old demolish a carnation more completely than Mr. Jacob
Jones picked to bits Mr. Lane’s several propositions. On the
broad question, the principle of the thing proposed, our good
ex-butcher was pretty sure to be victorious ; but in the detail,
the clauses of the different measures, Mr. Jacob Jones, who
had a wonderful turn for perplexing and puzzling whatever
question he took in hand, a real genius for confusion, ge-
nerally contrived (for the gentleman was a word-catcher
who lived on syllables”) by expunging half a sentence in one
place, and smuggling in two or three words in another — by
alterations that were any thing but amendments, and amend-
ments that overset all that had gone before, to produce such a
mass of contradictions and nonsense, that the most intricate
piece of special pleading that ever went before the Lord
Chancellor, or the most addle-headed bill that ever passed
through a Committee of the whole House, would have been
common sense and plain English in the comparison. The man
had eminent qualities for a debater too, especially a debater
of that order, — incorrigible pertness, intolerable pertinacy,.
and a noble contempt of right and wrong. Even in that
matter which is most completely open to proof, a question of
figures, he was wholly inaccessible to conviction ; show him
the fact fifty times over, and still he returned to the charge,
—still was his shrill squeaking treble heard above and between,
the deep sonorous bass of Stephen, — still did his small narrow
person whisk and flitter around the huge rotundity” of that
ponderous and excellent parish-officer, buzzing and stinging
like some active hornet or slim dragon-fly about the head of
one. of his own oxen. There was no putting down Jacob
Jones.

PBTER JENKINS) THE POULTERER*

143

Our good butcher fretted and fumed) and lifted his hat from
his head, and smoothed down his shining hair, and wiped his
honest face, and stormed, and thundered, and vowed vengeance
against Jacob Jones ; and finally threatened not only to secede
with his whole party from the vestry, but to return to the
Butts, and leave the management of Sunham, workhouse, poor-
rates, highways, and all, to his nimble competitor. One of
his most trusty adherents indeed, a certain wealthy yeoman of
the name of Alsop, well acquainted with his character, sug-
gested that a very little fiattery on the part of Mr. Lane, or
a few well-directed bribes, would not fail to dulcify and even
to silence the worthy in question ; but Stephen had never flat-
tered anybody in his life — it is very doubtful if he knew
how ; and held bribery of any sort in a real honest abhor-
rence, very unusual for one who had had so much td do with
contested elections; — and to bribe and flatter Jacob Jones!
Jacob, whom the honest butcher came nearer to hating than
ever he had to hating anybody ! His very soul revolted against
it. So he appointed Farmer Alsop, who understood the ma-
nagement of the chap,*' as he was wont to call his small
opponent, deputy overseer, and betook himself to his private
concerns, in the conduct of his own grazing farm, in oversee-
ing the great shop in the Butts, in attending his old clubs, and
mingling with his old associates in Belford ; and, above all,
in sitting in his sunny summer-house during th^ sultry even-
ings of July and August, enveloped in the fumes of his own
pipe and clouds of dust from the high-road ; which was his
manner of enjoying the pleasures of the country.

Towards autumn, a new and a different interest presented
itself to the mind of Stephen Lane, in the shape of the troubles
of one of his most intimate friends and most faithful and loyal
adherents in the loyal borough of Belford Regis.

Peter Jenkins, the poulterer, his next-door neighbour in the
Butts, formed exactly that sort of contrast in mind and body
to the gigantic and energetic butcher which we so often find
amongst persons strongly attached to each other. Each was
equally good and kind, and honest and true ; but strength was
the distinguishing characteristic of the one man, and weakness
of the other. Peter, much younger than his friend and neigh-
bour, was pale and fair, and slender and delicate, with straight
flaxen hair, very light eyes, a shy timid manner, a small voice.

144 PETJBR JENKINS, THE POULTERER*

and a general helplessness of aspect. Poor fellow ! '' was
the internal exclamation, the unspoken thought of everybody
that conversed with him ; there was something so pitiful in
his look and accent : and yet Peter was one of the richest men
in Belford, having inherited the hoards of three or four miserly
uncles, and succeeded to the well-accustomed poultry^shpp in
the Butts, a high narrow tenement, literally stuffed with geese,
ducks, chickens, pigeons, rabbits, and game of all sorts, which
lined the doors and windows, and dangled from the ceiling,
and lay ranged upon the counter in every possible ^tate, dead
or alive, plucked or unplucked, crowding the dark old-fashioned
shop, and forming the strongest possible contrast to the wide
ample repository next door, spacious as a market, whpre Ste-
phen’s calves, and sheep, and oxen, in their several forms of
veal, and beef, and mutton^ hung in whole carcases from the
walls, or adorned in separate joints the open windows, or filled
huge trays, or lay scattered on mighty blocks, or swung in
enormous scales strong enough to have weighed Stephen Lane
himself in the balance. Even that stupendous flesh bazaar did
not give greater or truer assurance of affluence than the high,
narrow, crowded menagerie of dead fowl next door.

Yet still was Peter justly called Poor fellow 1'* In the
first place, because he was, for a man, far over-gentle, much
too like the inhabitants of his own feathery den — was not only
** pigeon-livered and lacked gall," but was actually chicken-
hearted; in ftie next, because he was very literally chicken-
pecked, and, although a stranger to the comforts of matrimony,
was comfortably under petticoat government, being completely
domineered over by a maiden sister.

Miss Judith Jenkins was a single woman of middle age,
lean, skinny, red-haired, exceedingly prim and upright, slow
and formal in her manner, and, to all but Peter, remarkably
smooth-spoken. To him her accent was invariably sharp, and
sour, and peevish, and contradictory. She lectur^ him when
at home, and rated him for going abroad. The very way in
which she called him, though the poor man flew to obey her
summons, the method after which she pronounced the innocent
dissyllable Peter," was a sort of taking to task. Having
been his elder sister (although nothing now was less palatable
to her than any allusion to her right of primogeniture), and
his mother having died whilst he was an infant, she bad been

PETER JENKINS^ THE POULTERER. 145

accustomed to exercise over him, from the time that he was
in leading strings, all the privileges of a nurse and gouver-
nante, and still called him to account for bis savings and
spendings, his comings and goings, much as she used to do
when he was an urchin in short coats. Poor Peter never
dreamt of rebellipn ; he listened and he endured ; and every
year as it passed over their heads seemed to increase her power
and his submission. The uncivil world, always too apt to
attribute any faults of temper in an old maid to the mere fact
of her old-maidism (whereas there really are some single
women who are not more ill-humoured than their married
neighbours), used to attribute this acidity towards poOr Peter,
of which, under all her guarded upper manner,^ they caught
occasional glimpses, to her maiden*fcondition. I, for my part,
believe in the converse proposition. I hold that which seemed
to them the effect of her single state to have been, in reality,
its main cause. And nobody who had happened to observe
the change in Miss Judith Jenkins* face, at no time over-
beautiful, when, from the silent, modest, curtseying, shop-
woman-like cii^ility with which she had been receiving an order
for a fine turkey poult, a sort of butter won’t melt in her
mouth” expression was turned at once into a cheese won't
choke her ” look and voice as she delivered the order to her
unlucky brother, could be much astonished that any of the
race of bachelors should shrink from the danger of encounter-
ing such a look in his own person. Add to this that the
damsel had no wordly goods and chattels, except what she
might have saved in Peter’s house, and, to do her justice, she
was, I believe, a strictly honest woman ; that the red hair was
accompanied by red eyebrows and eyelashes, and eyes that,
especially when talking to Peter, almost seemed red too ; that
her face wj« Usually freckled ; and that, from her exceeding
meagreness, her very fairness (if mere whiteness may be called
such) told against her by giving the look of bones starting
through the skin ; .and it will be admitted that there was no
immediate chance of the unfortunate poulterer’s getting rid,
by the pleasant and safe means called matrimony, of an encum-
brance under which he groaned and bent, like Sinbad the
Sailor when bestridden by that he-tormentor the Old Man of
the Sea.

Thus circumstanced, Peter’s only refuge and consolation

L

14*6 PETER JENKINS) THE POULTERER.

was in the friendship and protection of his powerful neighbour^
before whose strength and firmness of manner and character
(to say nothing of his bodily prowess, wiiich, although it can
never be exerted against them, does yet insensibly influence
all women) the prim maiden quailed amain. With Stephen
to back him, Peter dared attend public meetings and private
clubs ; and, when sorely put to it by Judith’s lectures, would
slip through the back way into Mrs. Lane’s parlour, basking
in the repose of her gentleness, or excited by her good hus-
band’s merriment, until all the evils of his home were fairly
forgotten. Of course, the kind butcher and his sweet wife
loved the kind and harmless creature whom they, and they
alone, had the power of raising into comfort and happiness ;
and he repaid their affection by the most true and faithful
devotion to Stephen in all affairs, whether election contests or
squabbles of the corporation or the vestry. Never had leader
of a party a more devoted adherent ; and abating his one fault
of weakness, a fault which brought its own punishment, he
was a partisan who would have done honour to any cause,—
honest, open, true, and generous, — and one who would have
been thoroughly hospitable, if his sister would but have let him.

As it was, he was a good fellow when she was out of the
way, and had, like the renowned Jerry Sneak, his own mo-
ments of half-afraid enjoyment, on club nights, and at Christ-
mas parties ; when, like the illustrious pinmaker, he sang his
song and told his story with the best of them, and laughed,
and rubbed his hands, and cracked his joke, and would have
been quite happy, but for the clinging thought of his reception
at home, where sat his awful sister, for she would sit up for
him,

“ Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nurblng her wrath to keep it warm.”

However, Stephen generally saw him in, and broke the first
fury of the tempest, and sometimes laughed it off altogether.
With Stephen to back him, he was not so much afraid. He
even, when unusually elevated with punch, his favourite
liquor, would declare that he did not mind her at all ; what
harm could a woman’s scolding do } And though his courage
would ooze out somewhat as he approached his own door, and
ascended the three steep steps, and listened to her sharp angry
tread in the passage (for her very footsteps were to Peter’s
practised ear the precursors of the coming lecture) ; yet, on the

PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER. 14>7

whole, whilst shielded by his champion and protector, the
jolly butcher, he got on pretty well, and was perhaps as happy
as a man linked to a domineering woman can well expect
to he,

Mr. Lane's removal was a terrible stroke to Peter. The
distance, it was true, was only half a mile ; but the every-day
friend, the next-door neighbour, was gone; and the poor
poulterer fretted and pined, and gave up his club and his
parish meetings, grew thinner and thinner, and paler and
paler, and seemed dwindling away into nothing. He avoided
his old friend during his frequent visits to the Butts, and even
refused Mrs. Lane's kind and pressing invitations to come and
see them at Sunham. II is sister s absence or presence had
ceased to make any difference in him ; his spirits were alto-
gether gone, and his very heart seemed breaking.

AflPairs were in this postfire, when, one fine afternoon in the
beginning of October, Stephen was returning across Sunham
Common from a walk that he had been taking over some of
his pastures, which lay at a little distance from his house. , He
was quite unaccompanied, unless, indeed, his pet dog, Smoker,
might be termed his companion — an animal of high blood
and great sagacity, but so disguised by his insupportable fat-
ness, that .1 myself, who have generally a tolerable eye when
a greyhound is in question, took him for some new-fangled
quadruped from foreign parts — some monstrous mastiff from
the Anthropophagi, or Brobdignaggian pointer. Smoker and
his master were marching leisurely up Sunham Common,
under the shade of a noble avenue of oaks, terminating at one
end by a spacious open grove of the same majestic tree ; the
sun at one side of them just sinking beneath the horizon, not
making his usual golden set,'’ but presenting to the eye a
ball of ruddy light; whilst the vapoury clouds on the east
were suffused with a soft and delicate blush, like the reflection
of roses on an alabaster vase ; the bolls of the trees stood out
in an almost brassy brightness, and large portions of the foliage
of the lower branches were bathed, as it were, in gold, whilst
the upper boughs retained the rich russet brown of the season ;
the green turf beneath was pleasant to the eye and. to the
tread, fragrant with thyme and aromatic herbs, and dotted
here and there with the many-coloured fungi of autumn ; the
rooks were returning to their old abode in the oak-tops ;

L 2

148

PETKR JENKINS, THE POULTERER.

children of all ages were gathering acorns underneath ; and
the light smoke was curling from the picturesque cottages,
with their islets of gardens, which, intermingled with strag-
gling horses, cows, and sheep, and intersected by irregular
pools of water, dotted the surface of the village green.

It was a scene in which a poet or a painter would have de-
lighted. Our good friend Stephen was neither. He paced
along, supported himself on a tall stout hoe, called a paddle,
which, since he had turned farmer, he had assumed instead of
his usual walking-stick, for the purpose of eradicating docks
and thistles, — now beheading a weed — now giving a jerk
amongst a drift of fallen leaves, and sending them dancing on
the calm autumnal air ; now catching on the end of his paddle
an acorn as it fell from the tree, and sending it back amongst
the branches like a shuttlecock ; now giving a rough but
hearty caress to his faithful attendant Smoker, as the affec-
tionate creature poked his long nose into his hand; now
whistling the beginning of one tune, now humming the end
of another, whilst a train of thoughts, pleasant and unpleasant,
merry and sad, went whirling along his brain. Who can
describe or remember the visions of half an hour, the recol-
lections of half a mile? First, Stephen began gravely to
calculate the profits of those upland pastures, called and known
by the name of the Sunham Crofts ; the number of tons of
hay contained in the ricks, the value of the grazing, and the
deductions to be made for labour, manure, tithe, and poor-
rate, — the land-tax, thought Stephen to himself, being re-
deemed;— then poor little Dinah Keep crossed his path, and
dropped her modest curtsey, and brought to mind her bedrid-
den father, and his night-mare, Jacob Jones, who had refused
to make this poor cripple the proper allowance ; and Stephen
cursed Jacob in his heart, and resolved to send Dinah a bit of
mutton that very evening ; — then Smoker, Vent beating about
in a patch of furze by the side of the avenue, and Stephen
diverged from his path to help him, in hopes of a hare ; —
-then, when that hope was fairly gone, and Stephen and Smoker
had resumed their usual grave and steady pace, a sow, brows-
ing among the acorns with her young family, caught his notice
and Smoker's, who had like to have had an affair with her in
defence of one of the little pigs, whilst his master stopped to
guess her weight. Full fourteen score," thought Stephen,

PETER JENKINS, TBB POULTERER. 149

“ as she stands ; what would it bejf fatted ? — twenty, at least
A wonderful fine animal ! I should like one of the breed."
Then he recollected how fond Peter Jenkins used to be of
roast pig; — then he wondered what was the matter with poor
Peter; — and just at that point of his cogitations he heard a
faint voice cry, Stephen !" — and turning round to ascertain
to whom the voice belonged, found himself in front of Peter
himself, looking more shadowy than ever in the deepening
twilight.

Greetings, kind and hearty, passed between the sometime
neighbours, and Smoker was by no means behindhand in ex-
pressing his pleasure at the sight of an old friend. They sat
down on a bank of turf, and mo!?s, and thyme, formed by a
water-ehannel, which had been cut to drain the avenue in
winter: and the poor poulterer poured his griefs into the
sympathising ear of his indignant friend.

And now she*s worse than ever,” quoth Peter ; I think
soon that she’ll want the key of the till. She won’t let me
go the club, or the vestry, or the mayor’s dinner : and the
Tories have got hold of her, and if there should happen to be
an election, she won’t let me vote."

Marry, and be rid of her, man ! — that’s my advice,"
shouted Stephen. Dang it ! if I’d be managed by any
woman that ever was born. Marry, and turn Her out of
doors ! vociferated Stephen Lane, striking his paddle into
the bank with such vehemence that that useful implement
broke in the effort to pull it out again. Marry, I say!”
shouted Stephen.

How can I ? " rejoined the meek man of chickens ; she
won’t let me."

Won’t let him !” ejaculated the ex-butcher, with some-
thing like contempt. Won’t let him ! Afore I’d let any

woman dare to hfbder me Howsomever, men are not aU

alike. Some are as vicious as a herd of wild bulls, and some
as quiet as a flock of sheep. Every man to his nature. Is
there any lass whom you could fancy, Peter ; provided a body
could manage this virago of a sister of yours?. Does any
pretty damsel run in your head?”

Why, I can’t but say,” replied Peter (and, doubtless, if
there had been light enough to see him, Peter, whilst saying
it, blushed like a young girl), I can’t but confess," said the

L 3

150

PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER.

man of the dove-cot, that there is a little maiden Did

you ever see Sally Clements ?

^^Whatl” rejoined the hero of the cleaver, Sally Cle-
ments ! Did I ever see her I Sally Clements — the dear
little girl that, when her father first broke, and then died
broken-hearted, refused to go and live in ease and plenty in
Sir John's family here (and I always respected my lady for
making her the offer) as nursery governess, because she would
not leave her sick grandmother, and who has stayed with her
ever since, waiting on the poor old woman, and rearing
poultry**

She's the best fattener of turkeys in the country," inter-
rupted Peter.

Rearing poultry," proceeded Stephen, ‘‘ and looking after
the garden by day, and sitting up half the night at needle-
work ! Sally Clements — the prettiest girl within ten miles,
al|d the best ! " Sally Clements — whom my mistress (and
alie*a no bad judge of a young woman) loves as if she was her
own. daughter. Sally Clements ! dang it, man ! you shall
have her. But does Sally like you ? " '

I don't think she dislikes me," answered Peter modestly.

We*ve had a deal of talk when I have been cheapening her
poultry, buying, I should say ; for, God knows, even if I
had not liked her as 1 do, 1 never could have had the heart to
bate her down. And I'm a great favourite with her good
grandmother \ and you know what a pleasure it would be to
take care of her, poor old lady ! as long as she lives, and how

comfortably we could all live together in the Butts. Only

Judith"

Hang Judith ! — you shall have the girl, man!’* again
ejaculated Stephen, thumping the broken paddle against the
ground — you shall have her, I say!'*

But think of Judith ! And then, since Jacob Jones has
got bold of her"

Jacob Jones !" exclaimed Stephen, in breathless astonish-
ment.

Yes. Did not I tell you that she was converted to the
Tories? Jacob Jones has got hold of her; and he and she
both say that I’m in a consumption, and want me to quarrel
with you, and to make my will, and leave all to her, and make
hii& executor ; and then 1 do believe they would worry me out

PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER. 151

of my life, and marry before I was cold in my cofEn, and
dance over my grave,** sighed poor Peter.

Jacob Jones !** muttered Stephen to himself, in soliloquy;

Jacob Jones !** And then, after ten minutes* hard musing,
during which he pulled off his hat, and wiped his face, and
smoothed down his shining hair, and broke the remains of his
huge paddle to pieces, as if it had been a willow twig, he
rubbed his hands with a mighty chuckle, and cried, with the
voice of a Stentor, “ Dang it, I have it I”

Harkee, man ! ** continued he, addressing Peter, who had
sat pensively on one side of his friend, whilst Smoker reposed
on the other — Harkee, man ! you shall quarrel with me,
and you shall make your will. Send Lawyer Davis to me tON
night ; for we must see that it shall be only a will, and not a
conveyance or a deed of gift ; and you shall also take to your
bed. Send. Thomson, the apothecary, along with Davi$:
they're good fellows both, and will rejoice in humbugging
Miss Judith. And thjen you shall insist on Jacob’s marrying
Judith, and shall giye her five hundred pounds down, — that’s
a fair fortune, as times go ; I don’t want to cheat the woman;
besides, it’s worth any thing to be quit of her; and then they
shall marry. Marriages are made in heaven, as my n^istress
says ; and if that couple don’t torment each other’s^heart out,
my name’s not Stephen. And when they are fairly^ gone oflP
on their bridal excursion, — to Windsor, may be; ay, Mistresi
Judith used to want to see the Castle, — off with them to
Windsor from the Church-door; — and then for another will,
and another wedding — hey, Peter ! — and a handsome mar-
riage-settlement upon little Sally. We’ll get her and her
grandmother to my house to-morrow, and my wife will see to
the finery. Off with you, man ! Don’t stand there, between
laughing and crying ; but get home, and set about it. And
mind you don't forget to send Thomson and Lawyer Davis to
me this very evening.” *

And home went Stephen, chuckling ; and, Us he said, it
was done, — ay, within a fortnight from th&t very day ; and
the two couples were severally as happy and as unhappy as
their respective qualities- could make them — Mr. and Mrs.
uJones finding so much employment in plaguitig each other,
that the good poulterer and his pretty wife, and Stephen, and
the hamlet of Sunham, were rid of them altogether.

L 4

152

. THEi 6Alt6ll*« WEDDING.

TjHE SAILOR’S:' WEDDING.

Besides Mrs. Maiim, b&r maid R^gy, and her cat^ there was
one inmate of the littV toy-rihdp io the marketTplace, who
immediately attracted Mr. Sihgleton’s attention^ and not only
won, hut secured, the Iraruir atid constant affection of the kind*
hearted bachelor. It was a chubby, noisy, sturdy, rude,
riotous elf, of some three years old, still petticoated, but so
self-willed, and bold, and masterful, so strong and so con*
scious of his strength, so obstinate and resolute, and, above all,
80 utterly contemptuous of female objurgation, and rebellious
to female rule (an evil propensity that seems born with the
unfair sex), that it was by no means necessary to hear his
Christian name of Tom, to feel assured that the urchin in
question belonged to the masculine half of the species.
Nevertheless, daring, wilful, and unruly as it was, the. brat
was loveable, being, to say the truth, one of the merriest,
drollest, best-natured, most generous, and most affectionate
creatures that ever bounded about this work-a-day world ;
and Mr. Singleton, who, in common with many placid quiet
persons, liked nothing so well as the reckless lightheartedness-
which supplied the needful impetus to his own tranquil
spirit, took to the boy the very first evening, and became,
from that hour, his most indulgent patron and protector,
his champion in every, scrape, and refuge in every calamity.
There was no love lost between them. Tom, who would
have resisted Mrs. Martin or Peggy to the death — who, the
more they called him the more he would not come, and the
more they bade him not do a thing, the more he did it — who,
when cautioned against wetting his feet, jumped up to his
neck in the watertub, and when desired to keep himself clean,
solaced himself and the tabby cat with a game at romps in the
coal-hole — who, in short, whilst under female dominion,
played every prank of which an unruly boy is capable, was
amenable to the slightest word or look from Mr. Singleton,
came at his call, went away at his desire; desisted at his com-
mand from riding the unfortunate wooden steed, who, to say
nothing of two or three dangerous falls, equally perilous to the
horse and his rider, ran great risk of being worn out by Master

THte SAliOR'g WEPDING 133

Tom's passion for equestrian exercise;, and even under his
orders abandoned his favourite exercise of parading before the
door beating a toy-drum, -or,, blowing a penny-trumpet, and
producing from those noisy impleipenU a din more insupport-
able than ever sucii instr^untenta ha\^.'beenr found capable of
making,' before or rince. - '

Mr. Singleton did more ; not content with the negative
benefit of restraining Master Tom’s inclination for idleness, he
undertook and accomplished the positive achievement of com-
mencing his education. Under his auspices, at the cost of
many cakes, and much gingerbread, and with the great bribe
of l^ing able to read for himself the stories of fairies and
giants, of Tom Thumb, and Blue Beard, and Cinderella, and
Sinbad the Sailor, which he was now fain to coax his aunt
and her maid Peggy into telling him, did Tom conquer the
mysteries of the alphabet and spelling-book, in spite of the
predictions of the dame of a neighbouring day-school, whe
had had the poor boy at her academy, as she was pleased to
call it, for half a year, during which time she and her birch
put together had never been able to teach him the difference
between A and B, and who now, in that common spirit of
prophecy in which the wish is father to the thought,” boldly
foretold that all the Mr. Singletons in England would never
make a scholar of Tom Lyndham ; she, for her part, had no
notion jof a child, who not only stole her spectacles, but did
not mind being whipt for it when he had done. She wished
no ill to the boy, but he would come to no good. All the
world would see that.

Strange as it may seem, this effusion of petty malice had its
effect in stimulating the efforts of’ our good curate. The
spirit of contradiction, that very active principle of our com«
mon nature, had its existence even in him ; but, as bees can
extract wax and honey from poisonous plants, so in his kind
and benevolent temper it showed itself only in an extra-
ordinary activity in well-doing. Tom Lyndham shall be a
scholar,” thought and said Mr. Singleton ; and as his definition
of the word was something different from that of the peevish
old sibyl, whose notion of scholarship reached no farther than
the power of reading or rather chanting, without let or pause,
a chapter of crabbed names in the Old Testament, with such a
comprehension of the sense as it pleased Heaven, and such a

154

THE SAILORS WEDDING.

pronunciation as would have made an Hebraist stare^ he not
only applied himself earnestly to the task of laying the found-
ation of a classical education, by teaching the boy writing,
ciphering, and the rudiments of the Latin grammar, but ex-
erted all his influence to get him admitted, at as early an age
aa the rules would permit, to the endowed grammar-school of
the town.

The master of the school, a man who united, as we have
before said, great learning to a singular generosity of character
and sweetness of temper, received with more than common
kindness the flue open-countenanced boy whom Mr. Singleton
recommended so strongly to his notice and protection. But
after he had been with him about the same time that he had
passed with the dame of the day-school, he, in answer to his
patron's anxious inquiries, made a prophecy nearly resembling
hers, — to wit, that Tom Lyndham, spirited, intelligent, and
clever as he undoubtedly was, seemed to him the most unlikely
boy of his form to become an eminent scholar.

And as time wore away, this persuasion only became the
more rooted in the good Doctor’s mind. “ He may, to be
sure, take to Greek, as you say, Mr. Singleton, and go off to
Oxford on the archbishop's foundation ; things that seem as
impossible do sometimes happen : nevertheless, to judge from
probabilities, and from the result of a pretty long experience,
I should say that to expect from Tom Lyndham any thing
beyond the learning that will bear him creditably through the
school and the world, is, to demand a change of temper and of
habit not far from miraculous. I don't say what the charms
of the Greek grammar may effect; but, in my mind, the boy
who is foremost in every sport, and first in every exercise ;
who swims, and rows, and dances, and fences better than any
lad of his inches in the county ; and who, in defence of a
weaker child, or to right some manifest wrong, will box, ay,
and beat into the bargain, a youth half as big again as himself ;
and who moreover is the liveliest, merriest, pleasantest little
fellow that ever came under my observation — is far fitter for
the camp than the college. Send him into the world, that's
the place for him. Put him into the army, and I'll answer
for bis success. For my own part, I should not wonder to
find him enlisting some day ; neither should 1 care ; for if he
went out a drummer, he'd come back a general ; nothing can

THE SAILOR S WEDDIKO.

155

keep down Tom Lyndham : ” and with this | prognostic^ at
once pleasant and puzzling (for poor Mr. Singleton had not
an acquaintance in the army, except the successive recruiting-
officers who had at various times carried off the heroes of
Belford), the worthy doctor marched away.

Fortune, however, who seems to find amusement in some-
times disappointing the predictions of the wise, and sometimes
bringing them to pass in the most unexpected manner and by
totally opposite means, had a different destiny for our friend
Tom.

It so happened that one of the principal streets of our good
town of Bdford, a street the high road through which leading
westward, bore the name of Bristol Street, boasted a bright red
mansion, retired from the line of houses, with all the dignity
of a dusty shrubbery, a sweep not very easy to turn, a glaring
bit of blank wall, and a porte cochere. Now the wall being
itself somewhat farther back than the other houses in the
street, and the space between that and the ordinary pavement
being regulady flagged, an old sailor without his legs had
taken possession of the interval, for the sake of writing, with
w'hite and coloured chalks, sundry loyal sentences, such as

God save the King,” “ Rule Britannia,” and so forth, by
way of excitement to the passers-by to purchase one from a
string of equally loyal sea-ballads that hung overhead, inter-
mixed with twopenny portraits of eminent naval commanders,
all very much alike, and all wearing very blue coats and very
red faces.

At first, the two respectable ladies of the mansion (dowager
spinsters, Morris by name) objected greatly to the use made
of their wall and their pavement by the crippled veteran in
question, who was commonly known throughout Belford by
the name of Poor Jack probably from his attachment to
the well-known sailor’s ditty, which happened to form his first
introduction to the younger of the two ladies in question : —

“ Here am I, poor Jack,

Just come home from sea,

With shiners in my sack, —

Pray what d’ye think of me ? ”

I think you a very saucy person,” replied Miss Arabella
Morris to this question, not laid but sung by the sailor in a
most stentorian voice, as he lay topping and tailing the great I

156

THE sailor’s wedding.

in "God save great George our King,” just on one side of
their gate. think you are a very saucy person,” quoth
Miss Arabella, to sit Egging here, just at our door.”

"Begging !” rejoined poor Jack ; " I’m no beggar, I hope.
1 lost my precious limbs, when I fought under Admiral Rod-
ney; I’ve a pension, bless his Majesty, and have no call to
disparage the service by begging like a land-lubber.

* SAilors to forget their dutv.

Must not come for to go* ’’ — ]

chanted Jack.

I must really apply to the mayor,*' said Miss Arabella.^
"Go,” said Jack, continuing his work and resuming his
stave.

• * When the captain he heard of it.

He very much applauded what she had done,

And he made her the first lieutenant _

Of the-gallant Thunder bomb.*

" Made me a first lieutenant ! ” exclaimed the affronted
Arabella. Was ever any thing so impertinent ? Pray, if you
are not a beggar, what may you be ?”

“My name, d’ye fee, ’s Tom Tough,

On, I’ve seen a little sarvice.

Where the foaming billows roar and the winds do blow ;

I’ve sailed with noble Howe,

And I’ve sailed with gallant Jervis,

And only lo»t an eye, and got a timber toe ;

And more if you’d be knowing,
l*ve sailed with old Boscawen : ”

again shouted (for singing is hardly the word to express bis
sort of music) the incorrigible Jack.

‘‘ Well, 1 must go to the mayor,” said Miss Arabella ; and
Jack again uplifted his voice : —

“ Then in Providence I trust.

For you know what must be, must : **

and, consoled by this philosophical strain, he tranquilly con«
tinued his occupation, which, after a little persuasion from the
mayor, and something like an apology from Jack himself (to
whoife looks and ways they began to get accustomed), the good
ladies permitted him to pursue in peace and quietness under
their Weltering wall.

The above conversation will have shown that poor Jack was
Something of a humorist ; but his invincible good humour was
his distinguishing qualification. I doubt if there was in all

THU sailor’s wedding.

157

England a more contented person than the poor cripple who
picked up a precarious livelihood by selling loyal ballads in
Bristol- street, in Belford. Maimed as he was, there was
something in his round bullet-head, and rough sun-burnt
countenance, — in his nod, his wink, his grin (for it would
not do to call such a contortion a smile), in the snap of his
fingers, and the roll of his short athletic body — more ex-
pressive of fun and merriment than I ever beheld in any
human being. Call him poor Jack, indeed ! Why, if happi-
ness be wealth, he was the richest Jack in Christendom !

So thought Tom Lyndham, whose road to and from school
passed the lair of the sailor, and who having stood one evening
to hear him go through the whole ballad,

“ On board of the Arethusa,’*

and finally joined in the refrain with much of Jack's own
spirit, fell into conversation with him on the battles he had
fought, the ships he had served in, and the heroes he had
served under (and it was remarkable that Jack talked of the
ships with the same sort of personal affection which he dis-
played towards their captains), and from that evening made up
his mind that he would be a sailor too.

Sooth to say, the ^enthusiasm with which Jack spoke of
iieppel and Rodney, and Parker and Howe, as well as of the
commanders of his youth, Hawke and ‘‘ old Boscawen" — his
graphic description of the sea-fights in which the English flag
did really seem to be the ensign of victory — the rough, bold,
manly tone of the ballads which he sung, and the personal
character of the narrator — were in themselves enough to work
such an effect on a lively, spirited, ambitious boy, whose
bravery of mind and hardihood of body made him account toil
and danger rather as elements of enjoyment, like the bright
frosty air of winter, than as evils to shrink from ; whilst his
love of distinction made him covet glory for its own sake, and
his grateful and affectionate temper rendered the prospect of
wealth (for of course he was to be a second Rodney) delightful
as the means of repaying to his aunt and Mr. Singleton the
benefits which he had derived from their kindness.

Besides this, he had always had an innate passion for the
water. His earliest pranks of dabbling in kennels, and
plunging in pools, had shown his duck-like propensities ; and

158. » .VXCp WKDDIVG.

lifllf Ui/iMnrapes at 8c^ had occurred in atttnilar wAy; —
before the appointed day, swimming in dangerous
jdaitu^ mowing and fishing at forbidden hours ; he had been
Millet half*a«dozen times boat-building at the wharf, and bad
been detected in substituting Robinson Crusoe for the
€kaek grammar — from which Mr. Singleton expected such
miracle^ In short, Tom Lyndham was one of those boys
Udiiose genius may fairly be called semi-aquatic.

That he would be a sailor was Tom’s firm resolution. His
only doubt was, whether to accomplish the object in the
regular manner by apprising Mrs. Martin and Mr. Singleton
of his wishes, or to embrace the speedier and less troublesome
method of running away. The latter mode offered the great
temptation of avoiding remonstrances equally tedious (and the
grateful boy would hardly allow himself to think how tedious !)
and unavailing, and of escaping from the persuasions of which
his affectionate heart felt in anticipation the power to grieve,
though not to restrain ; besides, it was the approved fashion
of your young adventurer, — Robinson Crusoe had run away ;
and he consulted Jack seriously on the measure, producing, in
answer to certain financial questions which the experience of
the tar suggested, a 'new half-crown, two shillings, a crooked
sixpence, and sundry halfpence, as his, funds for the expe-
dition.

Five and threepence halfpenny ! ” exclaimed the prudent
mariner, counting the money, and shaking his head, —
’Twon’t do, master ! Consider, there’s the voyage to Ports-
mouth, on board o’ the what d’ye call ’um, the coach there ;
and then you’ll want new rigging, and have to lie at anchor a
shortish bit may be, before you get afloat. I’ll tell you what,
messmate, leave’s light; ax his honour the chaplain, the
curate, or whatever you call him, and if so be he turns can-
tankerous, you can but cut and run after all.”

And Tom agreed to take his advice ; and after settling in
his own mind as he walked home various ingenious plans for
breaking the matter gradually and tenderly to his good old
aunt (on whom he relied for the still more arduous task of
communicating this tremendous act of contumacy to his
reverend patron), he, from sheer nervousness and over-excite-
raent, bolted into the house, and forgetting all his intended
preparations and softenings, — a thing which has often hap-

THU S41L0&'» WBDDIKO. .159

penedj from the same causes^ to older and wiser ,persoiiBi~
shouted out at once to Mrs. Martin^ who happened to he in
the shop talking to Mr. Singleton^ Aunt^ I m determined to
go to sea directly ; and if you won’t let me^ it^ll run away.’*
Never were two people more astonished. And as the
hitherto respectful and dutiful boy, who with all his spirit had
never before contradicted a wish expressed by either, continued
to answer to all remonstrances, I will go to sea ; and if you
won't let me, m run away Mr. Singleton began to think it
best to inquire into his own views, motives, and prospects*
Vague enough they were to be sure ! Robinson Crusoe^
and a crippled sailor, and half-a-dozen ballads for induce-
ments, and a letter of introduction from poor Jack to a certain
veteran of his own standing. Bob Griffin by name, formerly a
boatswain, and now keeping a public-house at Portsea, and
commanding j according to him of the stumps, a chain of inte-
rest, somewhat resembling Tom Bowling’s famous ladder of
promotion in Roderick Random, a scrawl directed in red chalk
in printed letters half an inch lorig, to MISTUR BOB
GRIFIN LANLURD SHIP AGRUND PORSKE, by
way of introduction to the naval service of Great Britain !
However, there was in the earnestness of the lad, in the very
slightness of the means on which he built, and in his hold,
ardent, and manly character, that evidence of the bent of hia
genius, the strong and decided turn for one pursuit and one
only, which it is scarcely wise to resist.

Mr. Singleton, remembering, perhaps, the prediction of the
good doctor, yielded. He happened to have a first cousin, a
captain in tlie navy ; and on visiting our friend Jack, whom
he found repairing the chalking of ^^Rule Britannia," and
chanting two lines of his favourite stave,

“ But the worst of it was when the little onei were sickly.

Whether they would live or die the doctor could not tell,**

he had the satisfaction to find that he had sailed with his
relation when second lieutenant of a sloop called the Gazelle ;
and although relinquishing, with many thanks, the letter of
introduction to Mistur Bob Grifin,’* actually accepted one
from the same hard honest fist to Captain Conyers ; and it is
to he doubted whether poor Jack’s recommendation of the
tight youngster," as the veteran called him, had not as much

l60 THE SAILOR J WEDDING.

to do with the captain’s cordial reception of his new midship-
man, as the more elaborate praises of Mr. Singleton.

A midshipman, however, he was. The war was at its
height, and he had the luck (excellent luck as he thought it)
to be in the very hottest of its fury. In almost every fight of
the great days of our naval glory, the days of Nelson 'and his
immediate successors, was Tom Lyndham first of the first,
bravest of the brave, readiest of the ready. From the moment
that his age and rank allowed him to he officially noticed in
the despatches, he was so ; and it is to be questioned whether
the very happiest moment of Mr. Singleton’s life was not that
in which he first read Tom’s name in the Gazette. He cried
^ like a child ; and then he read to Mrs* Martin, and whilst try-
ing to lecture her for crying, cried again himself. He took
the paper round the town to every house of decent gentility,
from the mayor's downwards ; read it to the parish-clerk, and
the sexton ; and finally relinquished an evening party to which
he was engaged at the Miss Morrises’, to carry the news and
the newspaper to poor Jack, who, grown too infirm to face the
weather, had been comfortably placed, through his kindness, in
an almshouse about two miles off. It is even reported that, on
this occifsion, Mr. Singleton, although by no means noted for
his’ skill in music, was so elated as to join poor Jack in the
chorus of

“On board of the Arethusa,**

in honour of Tom Lyndham.

From this time all prospered with our gallant sailor, — ex-
cept, Indeed, a few glorious scars which he would have been
ashamed to want, and one of which, just after he had been
appointed first lieutenant to the Diana, gave him the opportu-
idty of coming back to Belford, for a short time, to regain his
hedth, and revisit his old friends. Think of the delight of
Mr. Singleton, of Mrs. Martin, of her maid Peggy, and of
poor Jack !

•* Here am I, poor Jack I,**

idiouted the veteran, when Tom made his appearance ;

“ Hero am I, poor Jack, ’

Just come home from sea, • •

With shiners in my sack,^

Pray what d’ye think of me ? ’’ >

THE sailor's WBI>1>IN0. l6l

And the above, as it happened, was highly appropriate ; for,
between battles and prizes, Mr.Lyndham, although still so
young a man, was rich enough to allow him to display his
frank and noble generosity of spirit in the most delicate way
to Mr. Singleton and his aunt, and in the most liberal to Jack
and Peggy. None who ha^ been kind to him were forgotten ;
and his delightful spirit and gaiety, his animated good humour,
his acuteness and intelligence, rendered him the^very life of
the place.

He was a singularly fine young man too;, not tall, but
strong, muscular, and well-built, with a noble chest, and that
peculiar carriage of the head, which gives so much of dignity
to the air and figure. The head itself was full of manliness
and expression. The short curling black hair, already giving
token of early baldness, and exposing a high, broad, polished
forehead, whose fairness contrasted with the sun-burnt com-
plexion of the rest of the face ; an eagle eye, a mouth com-
bining firmness and sweetness, regular features, and a counte-
nance at once open, spirited, and amiable, — harmonised well
with a chyacter and reputation of which his fellow- townsmen
already felt proud. Tom Lyndham was the very pride of
Belford ; happy was the damsel whqm he honoured with his
band at the monthly assembly ; and, when he rejoined his
ship, he was said to have carried away, unintentionally, mdre
hearts than had been won with care, and pain, and malice
prepense, by any half-dozen fiirting recruiting-officers in the
last half-dozen years.

No Belford beauty was, however, destined to captivate the
brave sailor. Love and fortune had prepared for him a very
difierent destiny.

Returning home towards the end of the war, (I mean the
great war, the war par eminence, the war with Napoleon,) into
Portsmouth Harbour, or rather bringing in a prize, a frigate
of many more guns and much greater force than his own, the
gallant Captain Lyndham (for he had now been for some
years posted) no sooner set foot on shore, than he encountered
an old messmate. Ha, Lyndham ! your old luck, I see !
You and the little Laodamia have peppered the Frenchmen,
as usual,'* said the brave Captain Manning. Do you make
any stay at Portsmiouth?*'

Yes,** replied Captain Lyndham i I have sent my fbmP

I62 THB SAILQR^S WEDDING.

lieutenant to London with despatches, and shall be fixed here
for some days.'*

I am thoroughly glad to hear it,” rejoined his friend ;

for I myself am rather awkwardly situated. An old aunt of
mine has just brought two of my cousins to see the lions, de-
pending upon me for their escort. •Now I must be off to the
Adroirdty immediately ; dare not stay another hour for all the
aunts and cousins in Christendom. They, poor souls, don’t
know a creature in the place ; and I shall be eternally obliged to
you if you will take my turn of duty, and walk them over the
dockyards, and so forth. By the way, they are nice girls —
not sisters, but cousins. One is an heiress, with above 3000/.
a-year, and a sweet place by the side of the Wye ; the other
is called a beauty. I don’t think her so ; or, rather, I prefer
the heiress. But nice girls they are both. 1 have the honour
to be their guardian, and if either should hit your fancy, you
have my free leave to win her and wear her. So now come
with me, and I ’ll introduce you.”

And in five minutes more they were in one of the best
rooms at the Fountain, and Captain Lyndham was introduced
to Mrs. Lacy, and to Miss Manning, and Miss Sophia Man-
ning.

Mrs. Lacy was a lady-like elderly woman, a widow without
a familyy and very fond of her nieces, who had been brought
up under her own eye, and seemed to supply to her the place
of daughters. This is the heiress ! ” thought Captain
Lyndham, as he glanced over a tall commanding figure^
expensively and fashionably dressed, and with that decided
air of consequence and self-importance which the habit of
power is too apt to give to a person in that unfortunate predi-
cament. This is the heiress, and this, I suppose, must be
the beauty,” thought Captain Lyndham, turning to a shorter,
slenderer, fairer young woman, very simply dressed, but all
blushes and smiles, and youthful animation. This must be
the beauty,” thought the captain, *^and whatever Manning
may say, beautiful she is — never saw a sweeter creature than
this Miss Sophy.”

And if he thought Sophy Manning pretty then, the im-
pression was far deepened when he had passed two or three days
in her cwppaqy — had ^walked her over the wonders of that
Boating world, a man of war— -had shown her the dockyards.

THE sailor's wedding.

m

\vith their miracles of machinery; and had even persuaded
Mrs. Lacy, a timorous woman, the least in the world afraid of
being drowned, and Miss Manning, a thorough fine lady, ex-
ceedingly troubled for her satin pelisse, first of all to take a
dinner on board the dear Laodamia, and then to suffer them-
selves to be rowed round St. Helen's in the captain's own boat,
gallantly manned by the officers of the ship.

Small enjoyment had Mrs. Lacy, in fear of her life, or the
stately Hoiioria, in care for her finery; but Sophy, in a
white gown and a straw bonnet, thinking nothing of herself
or of her dress, but wholly absorbed by a keen and vivid
interest in the detail of a sailor s life — in admiration of the
order and cleanliness that everywhere met her eye (always
the first point of astonishment to a landswoman), and in a
still more intense feeling of pleasure and wonder at the care-
less good humour of those lords of the ocean, — bold as lions
to their enemies, playful as kittens to their friends, — was
full of delight. Nothing could equal her enthusiasm for the
navy. The sailors, who, like dogs and children and women,
and all other creatures who have not spoilt their fine natural
instinct by an over- cultivation of the reasoning powers, are
never mistaken in the truth of a feeling, and never taken
in by its assumption, perceived it at once, and repaid it by the
most unfeigned and zealous devotion. They took all possible
care of Mrs. Lacy and Miss Manning, as women, and ladiea,
and friends of their captain ; but Miss Sophy was the girl for
them. They actually preferred her pretty face to the figure-
head of the Laodamia.

And Captain Lyndham, himself an enthusiast for his pro-
fession, what thought he of this enthusiasm for the sea, and
the navy, and that frigate of frigates, the Laodamia ? Did
he like it the less because he might honestly suspect that
some little reference to himself had strengthened and quick-
ened this deep interest ? because she had drawn from him his
own early history, and talked of the toy-shop in the market-
place of Belford, and of poor Jack, and the maid Peggy,
and even of Mr. Singleton himself (little as one would think
that good gentleman, now abroad with his second wife, was
calculated to strike a young lady), with almost as much
affection as of his frigate and his prize, and his ship’s
crew, and the absent first lieutenant, his espechd friend, and

M 2

164»

THE SAUiOR*S WEDDING.

8 little midshipman^ his especial protdg^? To any man of
fienaibility^ this sensibility^ shown by a woman^ youngs
lovely^ animated^ and artless, would have been dangerous;
to a sailor just come ashore it was irresistible. He made
lier talk in return of her own friends and pleasures and
;ainttsements, of her home at Sanbury, where she had lived
all her life with her aunt and her cousin, and where she
hoped always to live; (“not always,’* thought our friend
the captain ;) and how much more loveable those dear rela-
tions were in that dear home. “ My aunt,'’ said Sophy, “ is
nervous and timid, so that you know nothing of her but that
infirmity ; and dear Honor does not love travelling, and does
not like tlie sea, and has been all her life so much admired,
that she is a little spoilt, and does not always know what she
would have ; but you will love Honor when you see her at
home.” ^ *

“ I may like her,” said the captain, “ but I shall never
love any woman but one ; ” and then followed, in full form
the declaration and the acceptance. 1 am so glad that you
are not the heiress,” added Captain Lyndham, after repeating
to her her cousin’s jesting permission to him to marry which
of his wards he liked best ; “ 1 am so glad that you are not
the heiress 1”

“Are you?” said Sophy, quietly. “Now I should have
thought that you, thorough sportsman as you are for a sailor,”
added Sophy slyly, “ would have liked Sanbury Manor, with
its right of shooting, coursing, and fishing, and its glorious
Wye river. You would like Sanbury Manor.”

“ Hang Sanbury Manor !” exclaimed the captain.

“Nay,” said Sophy, “it’s a pretty place, and tL pretty
house ; one of those old-fashioned houses that fall upon the
fye like a picture. The very lodge at Sanbury is beautiful.
You must not take an aversion to Sanbury.”

. “1 should like any place that had been your home, pretty

or ugly,” replied Captain Lyndham ; “or rather, I should
diink any house pretty that you lived in. But nevertheless I
am heartily glad that you are not the heiress of Sanbury,
because 1 have been so fortunate with prizes, and you seem so
fdmple in your tastes, that I have enough for both of us ; and
now no one can even suspect me of being mercenary — of
flunking of anything or anybody but your own dear self.!’

THE sailor’s weddixo 165

should not have suspected you,*’ said Sophy tenderly;
but you must go to Sanhury, and look at the old place, my
home for so many years ; you promise me that ? **

Yes/’ replied the captain, but it must be with Sophy
Lyndham, and not with Sophy Manning ;’* — and, in spite of
Sophy’s blushing ^'must indeed!** so it was settled. They
were all to go to London, to which the affairs of his ship and
his prize now called the captain. There they were to be
married ; and on their return from a bridal excursion to
Bath and Clifton, and Wales, were to pay a short visit to
Mrs. Lacy and Honor, at the old manor-house, which had for’
so many years been the fair bride’s only home.

Mrs. Lacy, on being apprised of the intended marriage^
began talking about money and settlements, and those affairs
which, to persons not in love, seem so important ; but Captain
Lyndham stopped her, and Sophy stbpped her ; and as, in a
letter to Captain Manning, the generous sailor desired that
writings might be prepared, by which all that he was worth
in the world should be settled on Sophy and her children —
and as these settlements, read over by the lawyer in the usual
unintelligible manner, were signed by the enamoured seaman
without the slightest examination, it was impossible for any
guardian to object to conduct so confiding and so liberal.

Oh that poor Jack could see this day!” was Captain
Lyndham’s exclamation, as they were leaving London after
the happy ceremony, in his own elegant new carriage, attended,
somewhat to his surprise, by the lady’s-maid, whom he had
thought exclusively devoted to the service of Miss Manning.
— Oh that poor Jack could see this day I — you must make
acquaintance with him, Sophy, and with my good aunt, and
Mr. Singleton. You must know them, Sophy ; they will so
adore you ! ”

And I shall so love the people whom you love," rejoined
Sophy : but we have no room for bridal talk, and must hasten
to the conclusion of our story.

After a few days of rapid travelling, — short days they
seemed to the married lovers, — after a very brief tour, for
the bridegroom’s time was limited, — they arrived at the
beautiful village of Sanbury.

There it is — the dear manor-house ! ’’ exclaimed Sophy,
as they approached a fine old building, embosomed in its own

166

THE sailor’s wedding.

venerable oaks, the silver Wye winding like a shining snake amid
Ae woody hills and verdant lawns ; — There it is ! ’* exclaimed
the fair bride ; mine own dear home ! And your home,
too, my own dear husband ! for, being mine, it is yours,”
continued she, with a smile that would have made a man
overlook a greater misfortune than that of having married an
heiress. '' You are really the master of Sanbury, think of it
what you may,” pursued the fair bride. It is my first
deceit, and shall be my last. But when 1 found that because
Honoria was the elder, you took her for the richer cousin, 1
could not resist the temptation of this little surprise ; and if
you are angry, there,” pointing to the side of the road, sits
one who will plead for me.”

And suddenly, from the beautiful rustic lodge, the gate
belonging to which had been so arranged as to open with a
pulley, arose the well-kndwn sounds,

** Here am I, poor Jack,

Just come home fiom sea,

With shiners in my sack,—

Pray what d’ye think of me ? ”

And there sat poor Jack himself in all his glory, waving
his hat over his grey head, with the tears streaming down his
honest cheeks, absolutely tipsy with joy.

And before Captain Lyndham had sufficiently recovered
from his astonishment to speak a word — indeed, whilst he
was still clasping his lovely wife to his own warm heart, the
carriage had reached the mansion, on the steps of which stood,
in one happy group, her people and his ; Captain Manning,
Mrs. Lacy, and Honor (then really beautiful in her smiling
sympathy), Mr. Singleton (who by good luck had just returned
to England), Mrs. Martin, and the little maid Peggy, standing
behind on the upper step, and looking two inches taller in her
joy and delight.

So much for the Sailor's Wedding. There can be no need
to say, that the married life which sprang from such a be-
ginning was as happy as it was prosperous.

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

Some celebrated writer (is it Addison?) cites, as a proof of
the instinctive love of the country, which seems implanted in
the human breast, the fact, that the poorest inhabitants of
great cities cherish in their wretched garrets or cellars some
dusty myrtle or withering geranium, something that vegetates
and should be green ; so that you shall see in the meanest
wndow of the meanest street some flower or flowering plant
stuck in a piece of broken crockery — a true and genuine
tribute to that inherent love of nature which makes a part of
our very selves. 1 never see such a symptom of the yearning
after green fields without recognising the strong tie of fellow-
feeling with the poor inmate ; and the more paltry the plant,
the more complete and perfect is the sympathy.

There is a character in one of the old plays (I think The
Jovial Crew,’* by Ben Jonson’s servant Broome), who conducts
himself like a calm, sedate, contented justice's clerk all the
winter, but who, at the first sign of spring, when the sap
mounts into the trees and the primrose blossoms in the cop-
pices, feels the impulse of the season irresistible, obeys literally
the fine stage-direction of the piece, The nightingale calls
without,*’ and sallies forth to join the gipsies, to ramble all
day in the green lanes, and sleep at night under the hedges,*

Now, one of the greatest proofs of the truth of these de-
lineations was to be found in the fact, that the quiet old ladies
of Belford, the demure spinsters and bustling widows, to say
nothing of their attendant beaux, were themselves seized, two
or three times in the course of the summer, with the desire of
a country excursion. It is true that they were not penned up
like the poor artizans of London, or even the equally pitiable
official personage of the old dramatist — they were not literally
caged birds, and Belford was not London : on the contrary,

* A friend of mine, one of the most accomplished men and eloquent preachers in
London, says that, as the spring advances, he feels exactly the yearning for the
country described by the old dramatists. He does not join the gipsies ; but he de-
clares that it requires all the force of his mind, as well as the irresistible claims of
the most binding of all professions, to detain him in I.ondon. Talk of slavery! Are
we not all the bondsmen of circumstances, the thralls of conscience and of duty ?
Where is he that is free ?

»i 4

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

m

most of them had little slips of garden-ground, dusty and
smoky, where currants and gooseberries came to nothing, and
even the sweet weed mignonette refused to blow ; and many
of them lived on the outskirts of the town, and might have
walked country-ward if they would ; but they were l^und by
the minute and strong chains of habit, and could turn no other
way than to the street — the dull, darksome, dingy street.
Their feet had been so used to the pavement, that they had
lost all relish for the elastic turf of the greensward. Even
the roadside paths were too soft for their tread. Flagstones
for them; and turf, although smooth, and fine, and thick,
and springy as a Persian carpet — although fragrant and aro-
matic as a bed of thyme — turf for those who liked it !

Two or three times in the year, however, even these street-
loving ladies were visited with a desire to breathe a freer air,
and become dames and damsels errantes for the day. The
great river that glided so magnificently under the ridge of the
Upton hills, within a mile of the town, seemed to offer irre-
sistible temptations to a water-party, the more so as some very
fine points of river scenery were within reach, and the whole
course of the stream, whether sweeping grandly along its own
rich and open meadows, or shut in by steep woody banks, was
marked with great and varied beauty. But, somehow or other,
a water-party was too much for them. The river was na-
vigable ; and in that strange and almost startling process of
being raised or sunken in the locks, there was a real or an
apparent danger that would have iliscomposed their nerves and
their dignity. Middle-aged ladies should not squall if they
can help it. The spinsters of Belford had an instinctive
perception of the truth of this axiom ; and although Mr. Sin-
gleton, who liked the diversion of gudgeon-fishing (the only
fishing, as far as I can perceive, which requires neither trouble,
nor patience, nor skill, and in which, if you put the line in,
you are pretty sure within a few minutes to pull a fish out) —
although Mr. Singleton, who liked this quiet sport, often tried
to tempt his female friends into a sober water-frolic, he never
could succeed. Water-parties were reserved for the families
of the neighbourhood.

And perhaps the ladies of Belford were the wiser of the
two. Far be it from me to depreciate the water ! writing as I
am at four o'clock p. ai. on the twenty-sixth of this hot, sunny.

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. I69.

drouthy August, in my Own little garden — which has already
emptied two ponds, and is likely to empty the brook — my
garden, the watering of which takes up half the time of three
people, and which, although watered twice a day, does yet,
poor thing ! look thirsty — and, for my garden, prematurely
shabby and old ; and who, dearly as I love that paradise of
flowers, have yet, under die influence of the drought, and the
heat, and the glare of the sunshine, been longing all day to be
lying under the great oak by the i)Ool, at our own old place,
looking through the green green leaves, at the blue blue sky,
and listening to the cattle as they plashed in the water ; or
better still, to be in Mr. Lawson’s little boat — that boat which
is the very model of shape and make, rowed by that boatman
of boatmen, and companion of companions, and friend of
friends, up his own Loddon river, from the fishing-house at
Aberleigh, his own beautiful Aberleigh, under the turfy ter-
races and majestic avenues of the park, and through that world
of still, peaceful, and secluded water meadows,. where even the
shy kingfisher, who retires before cultivation and population
with the instinct of the Red Indian, is not afraid to make her
nest, until we approach as nearly as in rowing we can approach
to the main spring head (for, like the Nile, the Loddon has
many sources) of that dark, clear, and brimming river ; or,
best perhaps of all, to be tossing about as we were last Wed-
nesday, on the lake at Gore Mount, sailing, not rowing —
that was too slow for our ambition — sailing at the rate of ten
knots an hour, under the guidance of the gallant Captain
Luinley, revelling in the light breeze and the inspiring motion,
delighted with the petty difficulties and the pleasant mistakes
of our good-humoured crew — landsmen who did not even
understand the language of their brave commander — now
touching at an island, now weathering a cape, enjoying to its
very height the varied loveliness of that loveliest spot, and only
lamenting that the day would close, and that we must land.
1 for ray part could have been content to have floated on that
lake for ever.

Far be it from me, who have been all the morning longing,
panting as it were, for the water, for its freshness, its coolness,
its calm repose, its vivid life, to depreciate water-parties ! And
yet, in this fickle climate of ours, where a warm summer k
one rarity, and a dry summer is another, they are not often

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS*

170

found to answer. To have a boat and a river as Mr. Lawson
has, and his own thews and sinews for rowing, and his own
good-will for the choice of time ; or to command, as they do
at Gore Mount, lake and boat and boatmen, and party, so as
to catch the breeze and the sunshine, and the humour and in-
clination of the company ; to have, in short, ‘the power of
going when you like and how you like' — is the true way to
enjoy the water. In a set expedition, arranged a week or ten
days beforehand, the weather is commonly wet, or it is cold,
or it is showery, or it is thundery, or it threatens to be one or
other of these bad things : and the aforesaid weather having
no great reputation, those of the party who pique themselves
on prudence shake their heads, and tap their barometers, and
hum and ha, and finally stay at home. Or even if the weather
be favourable, and the people well-assorted (which by the bye
seldom happens), twenty accidents may happen to derange the
pleasure of the day. One of the most promising parties of
th^t kind whiqh I remember, was entirely upset by the
casualty of casting anchor for dinner in the neighbourhood of
three wasps' nests. Moving afterwards did no good, though
in mere despair move of course we did. The harpies had got
scent of the food, and followed and ate, and buzzed and stung,
and poisoned all the comfort of the festival. There was
nothing for it but to fling the dinner into the river, and row
off home as fast as possible. And even if these sort of mis-
haps could be guarded against (which they cannot), boating
is essentially a youthful amusement. The gentlemen should
be able to row upon occasion, and the ladies to sing ; and a
dance on the green is as necessary an accessory to a water-
party as a ballet to an opera.

Now, as in spite of some occasional youthful visitor, some
unlucky god-daughter, or rauch-to-be-pitied niec^, the good
ladies of Belford — those who formed its most select and ex-
clusive society — were, it must be confessed, mostly of that
age politely called uncertain, but which is to every eye, prac-
tised or unpractised, one of the most certain in the world ;
they did very wisely to eschew excursions on the broad river.
Nobody not very sure of being picked up, should ever put
herself in danger of falling overWrd. No lady not sure of
being listened to, should ever adventure the peril of a squall.
Accpl'dingly, they stuck firmly to terra firma.

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

171

The selection of places for a land expedition, presented,
however, considerable difficulties. One would have thought
that the fair garrison of Belford might have made a sortie
through any gate of the town, pretty much as it happened, sure
of meeting everywhere good roads and pleasant spots in a
country full of green pastoral valle^fs, of breezy downs and shady
woodlands. There was, however, always considerable hesi-
tation, doubt, and delay in fixing on the favoured scene of
their tranquil amusement. Perhaps this difficulty made a part
of the pleasure, by prolonging the discussion, and introducing
those little interludes of tracasserie, and canvassing, and
opposition — those pretty mockeries of care, which they who
have no real trouble are often found to delight in, stirring
the tranquil waters of a too calm qxistence, and setting in-
•tentionally the puddle in a storm.

AVhy, if tbe castle be too far,” grumbled Miss Arabella
Morris to her sister, why not go to tbe gardens at Wynd-
hurst ? I dare say we could have our dinner in the Fishing-
seat ; and anything would be better than that tiresome Warren
House, where we have been for the last half-dozen years, and
where there is no reason on earth for our going that I can dis-
cover, except that Mrs. Colby’s maid's father keeps the lodge,
and that Dr. Fenwick likes the stewed carp. Why should we
be managed by Mrs. Colby I wonder ? For my part, I have a
great mind not to join the party.”

Only think of our going to the Warren House again ! ” said
Lady Dixon, the not over rich widow of a corporation knight,
to her cousin Miss Bates, who lived with her as a sort of
humble* companion; ^^only think of that odious Warren
House, when the ruins are but three miles farther, and so
much more agreeable — a pic-nic in the old walls ! — how nice
that would be this hot weather, among the ivy and ash trees,
instead of being stewed up in the Warren House, just to please
Mrs. Colby ! It would serve her right if we were all to stay
at home.”

And Miss Bates gave, as usual, a dutiful assent ; and yet
Mrs. Colby had her way, and to the Warren House they went
— tbe two Misses Morris, Miss Blackall, Lady Dixon, Mrs.
Colby herself, and the beaux of the party.

Mrs. C61by was one of those persons whose indomitable
self-will does contrive to carry all before it. She was a little

172

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS*

bustling woman^ neither young nor old, neither pretty ttor
ugly ; not lady-like> and yet by no means vulgar ; certainly
not well-read, but getting on all the better for her want of
information, — no^ as is the usual way, by pleading ignorance,
and exaggerating and lamenting her deficiency — but by a
genuine and masterful contempt of acquirement in others,
which made educated people, if they happened to be modest,
actually ashamed of their own cultivation : I*m no musician,
thank God ! Heaven be praised, I know nothing of Poetry
exclaimed Mrs. Colby ; and her abashed hearers felt they had
nothing to do but to drown their books,’* and shut up their
pianos.

For this influence she was indebted entirely to her own force
of character and her natural shrewdness of mind ; since, so
far were her pretensions to superiority from being borne out by
fortune or position, that, moderately endowed with the gifts of
fortune as her companions were, she was probably by very
much the poorest amongst them, living in paltry lodgings with
one solitary maid-servant ; whilst upon the very ticklish points
of birth and gentility her claims were still more equivocal, she
having now resided for ten years at Belford without any one
having yet discovered more of her history than that she was a
widow : what her husband had been, or who was her father
— whether she came from the east, the west, the north, or
the south, still remained a mystery. Nobody had even been
lucky enough to find out her maiden name.

Of one thing her acquaintances were pretty sure, — that if
her family and connections had been such as to do her credit
in society, Mrs. Colby was not the woman to keep them
concealed. Another fact appears to me equally certain, — that
if any one of the gossiping sisterhood who applied themselves
to the examination of her history had been half as skilful in
such inquiries as herself, the whole story of her life — her
birth, parentage and education — would have been Jaid open in
a month. But they were simple inquisitors, bunglers in the
gieat art of meddling with Other people's concerns, and Mrs.
Colby baffled their curiosity in the best of all ways — by
seeming perfectly unconscious of having excited such a feeling.

So completely did she evade speaking of her own concerns
(a suligeet which most people find particularly agreeable), that
the fact of her widowhood had been rather inferred from the

COUNTRY £XOUR8ION&.

173

plain gold circlet on the third finger of the left hand, and a
very rare and very slight mention of poor Mr. Colby/* than
from any direct communication even to those with whom she
was most intimate. Another fact was also inferred by a few
shrewd observers, who found amusement in watching the fair
lady's manoeuvres, namely, that although when occasionally
speaking of *^poor Mr. Colby's’* tastes and habits — such as
his love of 'schalots with his beef-steak, and his predilection
for red mullet — she had never failed to accompany those
tender reminiscences with a decorous accompaniment of sighs
and pensive looks, yet that she was by no means so devoted
to the memory of her first husband as to render her at all
averse to the notion of a second. On the contrary, she was
apparently exceedingly well disposed to pay that sort of com-
pliment to the happiness she had enjoyed in one marriage,
which is comprised in an evident desire to try her fate in
another. Whatever might have been her original name, it
was quite clear to nice observers, that she would not entertain
the slightest objection to change that which she at present bore
as soon as might be, provided always that the exchange were
in a pecuniary point of view sufficiently advantageous.

Nice observers, as 1 have said, remarked this ; but we are
not to imagine that Mrs. Colby was of that common and
vulgar race of husband-hunters, whose snares are so obvious^
and whose traps are so glaring, that the simplest bird that ever
was caught in a springe can hardly fail to be aware of his
danger. Our widow had too much tact for that. She went
cautiously and delicately to work, advancing as stealthily as a
parlour cat who meditates an attack on the cream -jug, and
drawing back as demurely as the aforesaid sagacious quadruped,
when she perceives that the treasure is too well guarded, and
that her attempts will end in detection and discomfiture.

It was only by slight indications that Mrs. Colby's designs
became suspected : — for instance, her neighbour, 1^. Selwood
the attorney, lost his wife, and Mrs. Colby immediately became
fond of children, spent a world of money in dolls and ginger-^
bread, and having made herself popular amongst all the young
ladies and gentlemen of Belford between the ages of eight and
two, established a peculiar intimacy with Misses Mary and
Eliza, and Masters John and Arthur Selwood ; played at
domino and cat’s-cradle with the girls, at trap^-faall and cricket

174

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

with the boys ; courted the nurse, was civil to the nursery-
maid, and made as judicious an attack upon the papa s heart,
through the medium of the children, as could well be devised.
She failed, probably because that worthy person, Mr. John
Selwood, attorney-at-law, was not much troubled with the
commodity commonly called a heart. He was a kind father
and a good-humoured man ; but matrimony was with him as
much a matter of business as with Mrs. Colby, and, about
fourteen months after the death of his wife, he brought home
as his spouse a wealthy maiden from a distant county who was
far from professing any inordinate love for children in
general, and had never set eyes upon his, but who, neverthe-
less, made as good a step-mother as if she had played at trap-
baU and cat s-cradle all the days of her life.

Her next attempt was on a young physician, a bachelor,
whose sister, who had hitherto kept his house, was on the point
of marriage — an opportunity that seemed too good to be lost,
there being no axiom more current in society than the necessity
of a wife to a medical man. Accordingly she had a severe
illness and a miraculous recovery ; declared that the doctor’s
skill and assiduity had saved her life, became his proneuse in
all the Belford coteries, got him two or three patients, and
would certainly have caught her man, only that he happened
to be Scotch, and was saved from the peril matrimonial by his
national caution.

Then she fixed her eye on a recruiting officer, a man of
some family and reputed fortune ; but he was Irish, and the
national instinct saved him.

Then she turned her attention towards Mr. Singleton, who
dear man, soon let her know with his accustomed simplicity,
that he could not possibly marry till he got a living.

Then she resumed her fondness for children, which had
lain in abeyance since Mr. Sel wood’s affair, on the occasion of
an ex-curate of St. Stephen’s setting up a higher class of pre-
paratory school ; but it turned out that he took the school to
enable him to marry a woman whom he loved — and so that
card failed her.

Then she turned sickly again (delicate is the^more lady-like
phrase)^ in order to be cured by the ale of a rich old bachelor
hrew^, and went about the town crying up his XX, as she had
formerly done the doctor’s drugs; and then (for of course she did

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

175

not catch the old bachelor) she carried all Belford to buy bar-
gains of a smart linen-draper just set up in the market-place^ and
extolled his ribbons and muslins with as much unction as she
had bestowed on the brewer's beer, or the physician^s prescrip-
tions, or Mr. Selwood 8 boys and girls ; but all in vain ! The
linen-draper played her the worst trick of all. He was
married already — married before ever he saw Belford, or was
patronised by Mrs. Colby. N. B. — I cannot help thinking •
that these two last conjectures are rather super-subtle, and
hold with another particular friend of the lady's (for they
could only have been her very particular friends who watched
with such amusement and recorded with such fidelity her
several failures and mortifications), that her attentions to the
XX and the linen drapery might be accounted for on other
grounds ; and that a desire to obtain a certain green shawl
under prime cost, and a barrel of strong beer for nothing, in
both which objects she succeeded, would supply a reasonable
and characteristic motive for her puffery in both cases.

One thing is certain ; that after the series of fniitlesa
schemes which we have enumerated, Mrs. Colby seemed so
far 'discouraged as to intermit, if not wholly relinquish, her
designs on that ungrateful half of the creation called man, and
to direct her entire attention to the softer-hearted and more im-
pressible sex to which she herself belonged. Disappointed in
love, she devoted herself, as the fashion is amongst ladies of
her class, to an exclusive and by no means unprofitable
friendship.

The friend on whom she pitched was one of the richest and
simplest spinsters in all Belford. A good, harmless, comfort-
able woman, somewhat broader than she was high, round as a
ball, smooth as satin, soft as silk, red as a rose, quiet as a
dormouse, was Miss Blackall. Her age might ^ five-and-
forty or thereabout ; and to any one who knew her small wit
and easy fortune, it was matter of some surprise that she
should have lived so many years in the world without becom-
ing, in some form or other, the prey of one of the many
swindlers with which the age abounds. She had, however,
always been under some sort of tutelage, and had hitherto
been lucky in her guardians. First of all, her father and
mother took care of her ; and, when they died, her brother and
sister; they marrying,* consigned her to a careful duenna,

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

J76

vrhp bore the English title of lady’s maid ; and on her abdi-
cating her post^ Miss Blackall fell into the hands of Mrs. Colby.

, The reason of Mrs. Tabitha’s leaving a family over virhich
she ruled with the absolute sway that in this country of free-
dom is so often conceded to a lady’s maid (a race far more our
mistresses than we are theirs)^ was a quarrel with her lady’s
favourite parrot.

Vert-vert (for this accomplished feathered orator was named
after the hero of Cresset’s delightful poem) was a bird of sin-
gular acquirement and sagacity. There was a spirit of dialogue
in his fluent talk which really implied his understanding what
was said to him. Not only did Vert- vert, like the Irish echo
in the story, answer “ Very well, I thank you,” to “ How d’ye
do ?” and so on with a hundred common questions — for that
might proceed merely from an effort of memory — from his
having (in theatrical phrase) a good study, and recollecting
his cues as well as his part ; but there was about him a power
of holding a sustained and apparently spontaneous conversation,
which might have occasioned much admiration, and some per-
plexity, in wiser wdtnen than Miss Blackall.

In the matter of personal identity he was seldom mistaken.
He would call the whole household by name, and was never
known to confound one individual with another. He was a
capital mimic, and had the faculty, peculiar to that order of
wits, of counterfeiting not merely tone and voice, and accent
and expression, but even the sense or nonsense of the person
imitated ; spoke as if the same mind were acting upon the
same organs, and poured forth not only such things as they
had said, but such as they were likely to say. The good-
natured twaddle and drawling non-ideas of his mistress, for
instance, who had rather less sense and fewer words than an
ordinary child of four years old ; the sharp acidity of Mrs.
Tabijtha, who, with everybody but her lady, and sometimes
with hef, was a shrew of the first water ; the slip-slop and
gossiping of the housemaid, the solemn self-importance of the
coolfr and the jargon and mingled simplicity an*d cunning of
the black footman, — were all given to the life.

To the black footman Vert-vert had originally belonged,
U was mainly to the great fancy that Miss Blackall at
frtt aight took to the bird, which on oflering himself as a
candidate for her iservice he had had the shrewdness to bring

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. 177

with him, that Pompey owed the honour and happiness of
exhibiting his shining face and somewhat clumsy person in a
darning livery of white and scarlet and silver lace, which set
off his sooty complexion with all the advantage of contrast.
She bought the bird and hired the man ; and from the first
instant that Vert- vert’s gorgeous cage swung in her drawing-
room, the parrot became her prime favourite, and Mrs.
Tabitha's influence was sensibly diminished.

That this might occasion in the mind of the sopbrette an
unusual portion of ill-will (which amiable feeling we rational
beings generally reserve for the benefit of our own species),
is beyond all manner of doubt ; and the parrot — who, amongst
his other extraordinary gifts, had his fancies and aversions,
with cause and without, and loved and hated like any
Christian — did not fail to return the compliment, and detested
Mrs. Tabitha with all his heart. He was sure to bite her
fingers whenever, in compliance with her lady*s orders, she
attempted to feed him ; and mocked her, taunted her, and
laughed at her in a manner which, as the unfortunate object of
his jibes was wont to assert, was never hArd of before in a
feathered creature ! Well was it for Vert-vert that the days
of witchery were gone by, or most assuredly Tabitha would
have arraigned him before the tribunals of the land, and have
had him roasted, feathers and ail, as something ^^no’ canny”!
1 am far from certain that she for her particular part, did not
really suspect him of being somewhat elfish or fiendish, — a
sort of imp in disguise, sent into the world for her especial
torment ; and the sable colour of his quondam master served
to confirm the impression.

The immediate cause of offence was, it must be confessed,
provoking enough. Tabitha! Tabitha! Tabitha!” ejacu-
lated the bird one day from his cage on th? landing-place, as
the damsel in question was ascending the stairs ; Tabitha,
you’re an old fright !”

What ! ” exclaimed the affronted damsel, remonstrating as
if addressing' a human being ; what is that you dare to say

“ Look in the glass, Tabitha !” replied the parrot, swinging
himself with great nonchalance in the sort of wire circle sus-
pended from the centre of his large and commodious gilt
cage: ^^Look in the glass, and you’ll see a cross-grained,
squinting, shrivelled old fright !”

178

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS*

The allusion to her personal defects — for squint she did>
tod shrivelled^ alas ! she was — increased almost to frenzy the
ire of the incensed damsel. Say that again/' retorted slie^
^'and I’ll wring your head off!"

Tabitha, you’re an old fright ! repeated the bird ; a
sour^ cross-grained, shrivelled old fright, Tabitha !*’ said Vert-
vert, swinging and nodding, and swaying his neck from side to
side ; Look in the glass, Tabitha !*’

And Tabitha was approaching the cage with dire intent,
and Vert- vert might have rued his boldness, had not Miss
Elackall from the drawing-room, and Pompey from the hall,
rushed to the scene of contest, and rescued their favourite
from the furious waiting-woman.

Too much irritated to be prudent, she at once gave her lady
the choice of parting with herself or the parrot ; and as there
was no sort of comparison between the two in Miss Blackall’s
opinion, her warning was accepted and off she went — all the
sooner because, during the short time she did stay in the
house, her triumphant enemy continued to ejaculate, alter-
nately, Look in %ie glass, Tabitlia ! ” and Ugly^ cross-
grained, squinting old fright ! "

How the bird came by these phrases was a mystery,— un-
less, indeed, Mrs. Colby, who wished the duenna away that
she might succeed her in the management of her \ady, might
have had some hand in the business. Certain it was, that
any sentence sharply and pungently articulated was pretty
sure to be caugbt up by this accomplished speaker, and that
his poor inoffensive mistress had several times got into scrapes
by his reporting certain disagreeable little things which haji-
pened to be said in his presence to the parties concerned.
Vert-vert was the greatest scandal-monger in Belford ; and
everybody, except the persons aggrieved, cherished him ac-
cordingly.

From this time forth Mrs. Colby became a sort of guard-
ianess to Miss Blackall. She slept, indeed, at her own lodg-
ings, but she lived almost constantly with her friend ; used
her house, her carriage, her servants, her table ; protected her
from mercenary suitors, and seemed to have entirely relin-
quished in her favour her own matrimonial designs — the
more 4^dily, perhaps, as her attempts in that line had been
so singularly unfortunate.

COUNTRY EXOUR6TONS. IJQ .

• Thus passed several years. At the time, however, of the
meditated country excursion, Mrs. Colby had just admitted
into her ever-teeming brain another well-laid scheme for
changing her condition ; and the choice of the Warren House,
at which the other ladies grumbled so much, was made, not
for the gratification of her servant, whose family kept the
house, but for the furtherance of her own plans, which were
as yet wholly unsuspected in Belford.

Dr. Fenwick loved the stewed carp of the Warren House,
and to propitiate Dr. Fenwick was at present the great object
of Mrs. Colby, although he was about the last person whom
she would ever have intended to honour with her hand, being
almost as poor as herself, and with no very great prospect of
ever being richer.

The doctor was a burly, pompous personage, with large
features, a stout figure, a big voice, a slow oracular mode of
conversation, and a considerable portion of self-importance.
What he could have been like when young, one can' hardly'
imagine ; nor was it very easy to guess at^is present age, for
ever since he first came to Belford, a dozen years before, he
had seemed exactly the same heavy, parading, consequential
Doctor Fenwick, with a buzz- wig and a shovel-hat, that he
was at the moment of which we write. And yet this Stre-
phon had been in his time as great a fortune-hunter as Mrs^
Colby herself, and was said to have made in one week four
offers, three of them being to Lady Dixon and the two Misses
Morris. The swain was, however, soon discouraged, and for
many years appeared to have given up any design of making
his fortune by matrimony as completely as Mrs. Colby berself.

For the rest, he was a good-natured man, with more sense
than any one, judging from his egregious vanity, would have
supposed. His course through life had been, although quite
free from moral imputation, yet sufficiently out of the common
track to hinder his professional advancement; since he had
been originally an apothecary, then an army surgeon, t}ien a
physician with a Scotch diploma, and then, finding medicine
unprofitable, he contrived through some channel of interest to
get ordained, and now lived partly on his half-pay as army
surgeon, and partly by officiating as an occasional preacher in
the different parishes round about ; for in the pulpit, although
somewhat coarse, he was forcible and not ineloquent, and;

180 COUNTBV EXCURSIONS.

there was a kindness and a simplicity about the man, in the
midst of his pomposity, his vanity, and his epicurean tastes,
which, together with his thorough inoffensiveness and his
blameless character, ensured him considerable attention from
the leading persons in the town. He had many old friends
also of a respectable class in society, at whose houses he fre-
quently made long visits ; and one of these, a gentleman of
the name of Musgrave, descended like the doctor from an old
family in the North, was at this very time his visiter in Bel-
ford, and the object of Mrs. Colby ^s secret hopes.

Mr. Musgrave was really a delightful person ; shrewd, acute,
lively, rich, and not at all too young or too handsome to make
the union preposterous on the score of appearance. Since his
arrival, too, the gentlemen had been assiduous in their visits
and attentions ; they had dined at Miss Blackalfs, in com.
pany with Mr. Singleton, the day before the excursion, and
Vert-vert, aided it was to be presumed by a little prompting,
bad vociferated on their names being announced, — He’s a
fine preacher. Doctor Fenwick ! Mr. Musgrave’s a charming
man !” — at which Mrs. Colby had blushed and cried Fie !”
and the doctor had chuckled, and the simple hostess had
laughed, and Mr. Musgrave had given his friend a glance of
much meaning ; symptoms which were renewed more than
once in the course of the evening, as the parrot, according to
bis general habit, was so pleased with his new phrase that he
repeated it over and over again, until, fearing that even good,
unsuspecting Mr. Singleton might take more notice than she
wished, Mrs. Colby threw a green cloth over the cage, and
the bird, after wishing the company Good night ! ” com-
posed himself to rest.

The next day was as fine as ever blessed an English party
in chase of pleasure, and the company set forth in three car-
riages : Lady Dixon and Mr. Singleton in the Miss Morrises'
eoach ; Mrs. Colby, with Miss Blackall, in her chariot ; and
Dr. Fenwick and Mr. Musgrave in a well-appointed curricle
(the fashionable equipage of the day), belonging to the latter.
Vert-vert and Miss Bates were left behind.

Arrived at the place of destination, the first business of this
niral party was to discuss the stewed carp, the roast lamb, the
docks and green peas, and strawberries and cream, provided
fior their refreshment ; their second was to enjoy, after their

COUNTRY EXCURSIONS.

181

several ways, the beautiful scenery amongst which they found
themselves. Mr. Singleton, Lady Dixon, and the Misses
Morris preferred the mode of sitting down to a rubber in the
close room in which they had dined ; the other four sallied
forth into the air, Mrs. Colby taking Mr. Musgrave’s arm, and
Miss Blackall leaning on the doctor.

The more alert and active pair soon outstripped their
heavier companions, and led the way across a narrow strip of
broken common, with old pollards scattered here and there,
into a noble tract of woodland scenery, majestic oaks and elms
and beeches rising from thickets of the weeping birch, the
hornbeam, the hawthorn, and the holly, variegated with the
briar rose and the wild honeysuckle, bordered with fern and
foxglove, and terminated by a magnificent piece of water, al-
most a lake, whose picturesque shores, indented by lawny
bays and wooded headlands, were as calm and tranquil as if
the foot of man had never invaded their delicious solitude.
Except the song of the wood-pigeon, the squirrel leaping from
bough to bough overhead, and the shy rabbit darting across
the path, the silence was unbroken ; and Mr. Musgrave and
Mrs. Colby, who had the tact to praise, if not the taste to
admire, the loveliness of the scene, found a seat on the fan-
tastic roots of a great beech, and talked of the beauties of
nature until summoned by the cite of good Mr. Singleton to
partake of a syllabub under the cow, with which the ruralities
of the day were to conclude.

On their return home, a slight difference was proposed by
Mr. Musgrave in their travelling arrangements : Mrs. Colby
accompanied him in his curricle, and Dr. Fenwick took her
place in Miss Blackall’s carriage. The prospect seemed most
promising : — but, alas for the vanity of human expectations \
Mr. Musgrave did not propose to Mrs. Colby ; and Dr. Fen-
wick, encouraged by Vert-vert’s hint, did propose to Miss
Blackall, — and was accepted on the spot, and married within
the month ; and poor Mrs. Colby was fain to smother her dis-
appointment, and smile through the bridal festivities, and
teach Vert-vert to drink to the new-married couple, and draw
bride-cake through the wedding-ring.

THB YOUNG SOULPTOB.

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

Fob spme time after tbe dreadful catastrophe of the poor
Abbe, tbe Friary Cottage was deserted by all except Mrs.
Duval and poor Louis. The vulgar appetite for tbe horrible,
in all its ghastly and disgusting detail, bad not been so fully
awakened then as it has been since by repeated exhibitions of
murder in melo-dramas on the stage, and even in penny and
twopenny shows at fairs and revels — or by the still more ex-
citing particulars (with woodcuts to illustrate the letter-press)
in tbe Sunday papers : Belford was too far from London to
attract the hordes of inquisitive strangers, who flocked from
the metropolis to Elstree, to contemplate the lane where Thur-
tell slew his victim, or the house where tbe dreadful scene was
planned ; and, to do tbe inhabitants of our town justice, the
popular feeling both there and in the neighbourhood was one
comprising too much of genuine pity for the good old man,
so inoflensive, so kind, and so defenceless — too much indig**
nation against bis murderer, and too sincere a sympathy with
his avengers (for as such Lbuis and Bijou were considered),
to admit of the base alloy of vulgar curiosity. Everybody
would have been glad, to be sure, to make acquaintance with
the boy and the dog who had cut so distinguished a figure in
the justice-room, — to know, and, if possible, to serve them ;
but there was a sort of respect — young lad and pastry-cook’s
son though he were — which forbade an intrusion on a grief
so deep and so recent ; so that the gentry contented themselves
with raising a handsome subscription for the boy, and patron-
ising his mother id^e way of her trade ; whilst the common
people, satisfied their feeling of justice by attending the exe-
ention of Wilson, and purchasing and commenting on the
last dying speech and confession,” which was written and
printed, and distributed for sale by some ingenious speculator
in such commodities the night before it purported to be spoken,
and some copies actually vended in the country villages, owing
to a mistake of the time of execution, some hours before the
criminal was brought out upon the scaffold. Having so

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 18S

assuaged their indignation, the excitement gradually subsided,
and the murder of the poor priest sank into oblivion, like
other tales of horror, a mere nine days* wonder ! One im*
pression only seemed permanent : a shuddering aversion to
pass at night, or even by day, the picturesque ruins amongst
which he had dwelt, and in the consecrated grounds belonging
to which his remains, in pursuance of a wish which he had
expressed only a few weeks before the fatal night, had been
interred. The persons who avoided the spot would have been
puzzled to tell why, for it had been a favourite rendezvous
with the inhabitants of Belford — a walk for the grown-up, a
play-ground for the children ; why they shunned it they could
hardly have told, unless they had answered, in the words of
the great poet, that

“ Something ail’d it now — the place was cursed.”

Mrs. Duval fretted over this desertion ; not so much from
any decline in her business, for from the large orders of the
neighbouring gentry she had as much as she could well manage ;
but because her cheerful and social disposition felt the lone-
liness oppressive. It almost seemed, she said, as if the folk
ran away from her ; besides, she thought it too melancholy
{unked was her word — and a most expressive word it is, com-
bining loneliness, melancholy, dreariness, and vacuity — a
more intense and positive feeling of mental weariness than
ennui), she thought it too unked for a boy of Louis* age, and
wished to take advantage of her improved circumstances, and
remove into the interior of the town, where her son would be
near an excellent day-school, at which she proposed to place
him, and would be in the way of cheerful society in an even-
ing. But Louis, with an obstinacy very unlike his general
character, positively refused to leave the Friary Cottage. The
violence of his grief had of course abatec^fter the detection
and the execution of the murderer, and more particularly after
he had ascertained, not merely from Wilson’s confession, but
from the corroborating testimony of Miss Smith’s maid, that
her carelessly mentioning in a shop to which she was sent to
get change for a five-pound note, that her mistress wanted
gold to make up the amount of some money, which she was
going to pay to the old French master, had been overheard by
this ruffian, who was himself in the shop making some small
N 4

THE VOITNO ^UrPTOR.

lU

M)fch4«e^ atid had been ithe actual cause of the murder. This
was. an indescribable relief to Louis^ who had been
hflfilllted by the fear that his own dear mother’s unguarded
^lipre^sions of terror at M. TAbbe’s intended return at nighty
and with a charge of money, after her repeated cautions and
her dream, which story she had related at full length to every
creature whom she had seen during the day, had in some way
or other been the occasion of this horrible catastrophe. To
be so fully assured that her indiscretion had not produced this
tremendous result, proved an unspeakable comfort to the
thoughtful and sensitive boy ; but still his grief, although it
had changed its violent and tumultuous character, and seemed
fast settling into a fixed though gentle melancholy, appeared
rather to increase than diminish. He shrank from society of
all kinds, especially the company of children, and evidently
suffered so much both in mind and body when forced from
his beloved solitude, that his fond mother, fearful of risking
the health, if not the life, of this precious and only child,
at length desisted from the struggle, and left him to pursue
his own inclinations in peace, much to the annoyance of Ste-
phen Lane, who, having taken a great fancy to the boy, from
the part he had acted in the discovery of the poor Abbe'’8
body, and the detection of the murderer, had resolved to be
his friend through life, and wished to begin his kindness at
that very mw, by putting him to school, or binding him ap-
prentice, and gave the preference to the latter mode of pro-
ceeding.

Talk of his delicacy I exclaimed the good butcher to
X>ooT Mrs. Duval, in a loud earnest tone, which, kind as his
meaning was, and good-humoured as was the speaker, did
certainly sound a little like the voice of a man in a passion.

His delicacy, forsooth ! Won’t your coddling make him
more delicate ? Delicacy 1 Nobody ever talked of such non-
sense when 1 was a youngster. Why, before I was his age,
I was head-boy with old Jackson, my wife’s father that now
is — used to be up between three and four of a morning, and
down to the yard to help the men slaughter the beasts ; tlien
back again to the Butts, to open the windows and sweep the
shop ; then help cut out ; then carry home the town orders.
— I should like to see Louis with such a tray of meat upon
his head as 1 used to trot about with and think nothing of it !

THE YOUMO SCULPTOR.

— then carry out the country orders, galloping with my Wy
before me like mad, ay, half over the county at a sweep ; then
drive the cart to fetch home the calves ; then see to the
horses ; then feed the beasts; then shut up shop; then take a
scamper through the streets for my own diversion ; go to bed
as fresh as a four-year-old, and sleep like a top. There’s a
day’s work for you ! Just send Louis down to the Butts, and
1*11 make a man of him ; take him ’prentice for nothing, feed
and clothe and iodge him, and mayhap, by and bye, give him
a share of the business. Only send him to me.”

But, Mr. Lane,” interposed Mrs. Duval, poor Louis
does not like butchering ; he has not the heart to kill a worm,
and would never do in that line of business, I’m sure.”

“ More fool he ! ” ejaculated Stephen. Heart, indeed I
As if butchers were harder- hearted than other folk ! 1*11 tell

you what, Mrs. Duval, no good will come to the boy whilst
you let him sit moping all day with a book in his hand
amongst those ruins. Move yourself off ! Get into the mid-
dle of the town, and wean him from that dismal place alto-
gether. Delicate, quotha ! Well he may, such a life as he
leads there, sitting upon the poor old man’s grave along with
the little dog, just like two figures on a tombstone. As to the
poor brute, I don’t blame him, because 'tis his instinct, poor
dumb thing, and he can’t help it ; but Louis can — or you
can for him, if you will. Dang it ! ” continued the honest
butcher, warming as he pursued his harangue ; dang it !
you women folk are all alike, young and old. There is my
daughter Bessy — T caught her this very morning coaxing
young Master Stephen to let the maid wash him, and my young
gentleman squalled, and kicked, and roared, and would have
coaxed and scolded, if he could but ha’ spoke ; and mother,
and grandmother, and nurse, were all going to put off the
washing till another time, for fear of throwing the urchin into
fits, he being delicate, forsooth ! when I came in and settled
the matter, by whipping up young master, and flinging him
into the water- tub in the yard before you could say ^ Jack
Robinson ; ’ and Dr. Thompson says I was right, and that my
sousing will do the boy more good than all their coddling with
warm water. So the young gentleman is to be ducked every
morning, and the doctor says ^at in a month he’ll have cheeks
like a rose. Now this is what you should do witli Louis.”

186

THE TOUNO SCULPTOR*

" What ! duck him ? ** inquired Mrs. Duval, smiling.

No, woman ! ” replied Stephen, waxing wroth, " but get
away from this dreary place, and ding him amongst other
boys. Put him to school for a year or two, if he is such a
fool as not to like the butchering line ; I *11 pay the expense, and
we’ll see what else we can do with him when he's of a proper
$ge. Only leave that old Friary. No good can come to either
of you whilst you stay there.”

Well, and I wish to leave the ruins, I assure you, Mr,
Lane, and I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to-
wards Louis,” returned the affectionate mother ; but the
poor boy falls sick if he’s taken away for a day ; and then
sometimes 1 think he may be right, on account of my dream.”

Your dream !” exclaimed Stephen. Is the woman
mad?”

Did you never hear,” resumed Mrs. Duval, taking no no-
tice of this civil ejaculation, that I dreamt of Louis' finding
a pot of gold in the ruins ? and you know how true my dream
about the wolves falling upon the poor Abbe turned out — so
that I sometimes think ”

The woman's crazy I ” interrupted Mr. Lane, sailing off;
for this discussion had taken place at the small gate leading up
to the cottage ; — she’s madder than a March hare ! one might
as well attempt to drive a herd of wild bulls along the tum-
'pike road, as to bring her round to common sense ; so she
may manage matters her own way, for I 've done with her : ”
and off marched Stephen Lane.

His description of Louis and Bijou was not much unlike
the truth. The faithful dog, with the remarkable instinct
which characterises his race, lay for hours and hours on the
simple flag-stone marked only with his name and the date
of his death (that of his birth being unknown) which covered
the remains of his old master. And, reclining beside him on
the same stone, sat his equally faithful companion, sometimes
reading one of the good Abbe’s books ; which, unclaimed by
anyjrelation, and no will having been found, had been con-
signed by the local authorities to the care of Mrs. Duval ;
sometimes pursuing, with irregular but successful ardour, the
studies marked out for him by his venerable instructor ; and of-
ten sketching designs for a monument, which it was the object
of his affectionate day-dreams to erect to his memory, Gradu-^

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR^

187

ally, however, his designs extended to other objects. Louis'
talent for drawing was remarkable ; and as he had inherited
a little of his mother's superstition — and encouraged, it may
be, in the present instance, by the verification of the bad
dream, had formed his own version of the good — the pencil
soon became his principal occupation. If Stephen Lane had
heard to the end the story of dreaming of a pot of gold, arid
finding an old paint-pot, and had happened to have had any
faith in the legend, he would have construed it differently,
and have bound Louis upon the spot either to a glazier and
house-painter, or to an oil and colourman : but the boy, as I
said before, put his private interpretation on the vision, and as
prophecies sometimes work their own accomplishment, so did
it bid fair to prove in this case, since by repeated and assidu*^
ous and careful copying of the romantic buildings and the
fine natural scenery about him, he was laying the foundation
of an artist's education, by at once acquiring facility and cer<»
tainty of drawing, and a taste for the beautiful and the pictu-
resque. Thus occupied, and with the finest books in French
literature — and Louis read French like English, and some of
the easier classics to occupy him — he never had dared to
open the Horace, which seemed like a sacred legacy, — days
and weeks passed on, and, with no apparent change in the
habits, a silent amelioration was taking place in the mind of
the pensive boy, on whom time was working its usual healing
effect, taking the sting from grief and the bitterness from me-
mory the strong hours conquer us " — why should we resist
them?) when a circumstance occurred, which tended more
than any thing could have done to divert his attention and
soothe his sorrow. A new lodger offered himself at the Friary
Cottage, and of all the lodgers that could have been devised,
one the most congenial to his disposition, and the most calcu-
lated to foster and encourage his predominant pursuit.

He was sitting among the ruins as usual, one fine morning
early in May, attempting for the twentieth time to imitate on
paper the picturesque forms, and the contrasted yet harmonious
colouring of a broken arch garlanded with ivy, whose dark
shining wreaths had straggled from the old stone-work to a
tall pear-tree in full blossom that overhung it, breaking with
its pale green leaved and its ivory blossoms the deep blue of
the almost cloudless sky, — when his mother called him to a

188

THL YOUNG SCULPTOR*

young gentleman^ who wished^ she said^ to sketch the great
window^ and who, after sufficient conversation with her to
prove his good breeding and good feeling, sat down to the task
which had so often taxed the poor boy’s simple skill. The
stranger brought to it talent, practice, taste. The work grew
under his hand, and in two hours, which seemed but two
minutes to Louis, to whom he had been talking most kindly
during the greater part of the time, he produced a drawing,
free, vigorous, and masterly beyond any that his youthful ad-
mirer had ever beheld.

You must be a great artist !’* exclaimed the boy involun-
tarily, returning the sketch after a long examination, his eyes
sparkling and his checks glowing with generous fervour ; for,
as young as you look, you must be some great painter.”

Not a painter certainly, nor a great artist of any kind,”
replied the stranger, smiling. I am a young sculptor, or
rather a student of sculpture, driven by medical advice into
the country, and in search of some cheap, quiet, airy lodging ;
— if your apartments are vacant, and your mother would ven-
ture to take into her house an unknown youth — ” And in five
minutes the affair was settled, and Henry Warner established
as an inhabitant of the Friary Cottage.

To a boy like Louis the companionship of such a person as
Henry Warner — -for in spile of the differences of station,
age, and acquirenieiit, companions they speedily became —
proved not only an almost immediate cure for his melancholy,
but an excellent although unconscious education.

The young sculptor was that rare thing, a man of genius,
and of genius refined and heightened by cultivation. His
father had been a clerk in a public office, and having only one
other child, an elder daughter comfortably married in her own
rank of life, he devoted all that could be spared of his own in-
come to the improvement of his promising boy, sending him
first to a public school, then to the Royal Academy, and from
thence to Italy ; but even at the moment that he was rejoicing
over a printed letter dated Rome in an English newspaper,
which mentioned Henry Warner as likely to become a second
Canova, apoplexy, caused perhaps by the very excess of plea-
surable excitement, seized him with that one fatal, and, there-
fore merciful grasp, with which that tremendous disease some-
times sweeps away the hardiest and the strongest. He died.

THE YOUNG SOULPTOft. ISff

leaving his beloved son to struggle with the penury which he
was by nature and by temperament peculiarly unfitted either
to endure or to surmount.

On his return to England, Henry found himself alone in
the world. His mother had long been dead ; and his sister,
a well-meaning but vulgar-minded person, differing from him
in appearance, intellect, and character — as we so often see,
yet always with soniething like surprise, in children of the
same parents — and married to a man still coarser than herself,
had no thought or feeling in common with him, could not
comprehend his hopes, and was more than half tempted to
class his habits of patient observation, of strenuous thought,
and of silent study, under the one sweeping name of idleness.
She could not understand the repetition of effort and of failure
which so often leads to the highest excellence ; and, disap«
pointed in the sympathy of his only relation — the sympathy
which above all others would have soothed him, our young
artist, after collecting the small remains of his father’s pro-
perty, withdrew from a house where he suspected himself to
be no longer welcome, and plunged at once into the mighty
sea of London.

His first outset was unexpectedly prosperous. A nobleman
of acknowledged taste, whom he had met at Rome, not only
purchased a bust of the Grecian Helen, in which he found or
fancied a resemblance to his youngest and favourite child, but
engaged him to accompany his family to their country seat,
and execute a group of his two daughters, then on the point
*of marriage.

The group was most successfully begun — one figure quite
finished, and the other nearly so, and the nuptials of the elder
sister were celebrated with all due splendour, and adorned by
the varied talents of the accomplished sculptor, who united
strong musical taste to a slight turn for lyrical poetry, and
poured forth his united gifts with unbounded prodigality on
this happy occasion. But, a few days before that fixed for
the marriage of the young and lovely Lady Isabel, the artist,
whose manner had latterly assumed a reckless gaiety little in
accordance with his gentle and modest character, suddenly
quitted the Hall, leaving behind him the fine work of art, now
so near its completion, and a letter to the Earl, which excited
strange and mingled feelings in the breast of his noble patron.

190 THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

Wayward, presumptuous, yet honourable boy ! ” was his
internal exclamation, as the open and artless questions of the
unconscious Isabel, who wondered with a pretty and almost
childish innocence why a person whom she liked so much
should leave her figure unfinished and run away from her
wedding, convinced the anxious father that the happiness of
his favourite child was still uninjured. The nuptials were
solemnised ; the noble family returned to Italy ; and Henry
Warner, retiring to his London lodgings, strove to bury
thought and recollection in an entire and absorbing devotion
to his great and noble art.

From this point, his history was but a series of misfortunes
— of,, trembling hopes, of bitter disappointments, of consum-
ing anxiety, and final despair. Every one knows the difficulty
with which excellence in art bursts, often as it seems by some
casual accident, through the darkness of obscurity and the
crowd of competition. Doubtless many’ a one has felt, as
Henry Warner felt, the aching, burning consciousness of un-
recognised genius — the agonising aspiration after the fame,
always within view, yet always eluding his pursuit. Mr.
Moore, in one of the finest songs that even he ever wrote, has
dqncfed a glittering vessel, laden with fairy treasures, sailing
lightly over a summer sea, followed by a little boat, rowed by
one single mariner, closely chasing yet never overtaking the
phantom bark. The sun rises and the sun sets, and still sees
the magic ship floating onward, and the solitary boatman
labouring after at one unvaried distance, ever near but never
nearer — wearing away life and strength for an illusion that
mocks whilst it allures. That lonely mariner might be the
type of many an artist of high but unacknowledged talent,
more especially of many a young sculptor, since in that pure
and lofty branch of art there is no room for second-rate merit,
no middle path between hopeless obscurity and splendid re-
putation.

• To attain to this proud eminence was not the destiny of
Henry Warner. With funds almost exhausted, a broken con-
. stltution, and a half-broken heart, he left the grqat city — so
dreary and so desolate to those who live alone, uncheered by
bosom sympathy, unsoothed by home aflection — and retired
to Bdford, as his medical adviser said, to recruit his health —
as hia own desponding spirit whispered^ to die !

THB YOUNG SCULPTOR. I9I

At the Friary Cottage he found unexpected comfort. The
quiet was delightful to him ; the situation^ at once melancholy
and picturesque, fell in with his taste and his feelings ; and
with the cheerful kindness of Mrs. Duval and the ardent ad-
miration of her enthusiastic boy it was impossible not to he
gratified.

Henry was himself one of those gifted persons who seem
born to command affection. The griefs that were festering at
the core, never appeared upon the surface. There all was
gentle, placid, smiling, almost gay ; and the quickness with
which he felt, and the sweetness with which he acknowledged,
any trifling attention, would have won colder hearts than those
of Louis and his mother. The tender charm of his smile and
the sunny look of his dark eyes were singularly pleasing, and,
without being regularly handsome, his whole countenance had
a charm more captivating than beauty. Sweetness and youth-
fulness formed its prevailing expression, as grace was the
characteristic of his slight and almost boyish figure ; although
a phrenologist would have traced much both of loftiness and
power in the Shakspearian pile of forehead and the finely-
moulded head.

His conversation was gentle and unpretending, and occa-
sionally, when betrayed into speaking on his own art, fervent
and enthusiastic. But he talked little, as one who had lived
much alone, preferring to turn over the French and Latin
books of which the poor Abbe’s small library consisted, or
buried in Hayley’s Essay on Sculpture,” a chance-found
volume, of which not merely the subject, but the feelings
under which the poem was written, particularly interest^
him * ; or forming plans for new works, which, under the
temporary revival caused by change of scene and of air, he in

% The Letters on ^ulpture were addressed to Flaxtnan, whose pupil, Thomaa
Hayley, the poet’s only son, was during the time of their composition rapidly de-
clining of a lingering and painfUl disease. He did actually die between the com.
pletion and the publication of the poem : and the true and btrong expression of the
father's grief for the sufferings and death of this amiable and promising youth, is to
me singularly affbeting. It is very old-fashioned to like the writings of Hayley, who
paid in the latter part of his career the usual penalty for having been ovcr.praised
in his earlier days, and is now seldom mentioned but af an objefet.of ridicule and
scorn ; but, set aside the great and varied learning of his notes, I cannot help
feeling some kindness for the accomplished and elegant scholar who in his greater’
works, the Itlssays on History, on Epic Poetry, on Painting, and on Sculpture, has
communicated, so agreeably, so rich a store of information, and whose own ob.
servations are always so just, so candid, so honourable— so full of a tempered love
of liberty, and of the highest and purest admiration for all that is great and beautifdl
in literature or in art.

THB irOUNO SCULPTOB.

his happier moments began to ^ink it possible that he might
live to complete.

His great pleasure, however, was in rambling with Louis
through the lanes and meadows, now in the very prime and
pride of May, green and flowery to the eye, cool and elastic
to the tread, fresh and fragrant to the scent, pleasant to every
sense ; or in being rowed by him in a little boat (and Louis
was a skilful and indefatigable waterman) amongst the remotest
recesses of the^^eat river ; between beech- woods with’Uie sun-
beams wandering with such an interchange of light and shadow
over the unspeakable beauty of their fresh young tops ; — or
through narrow channels hemmed in by turfy hills and bowery
klets, beautiful solitudes from which the world and the world's
woe seemed excluded, and they and their little boat sole
^nants of the bright water, into whose bosom the blue sky
^one so peacefulfy,- and whose slpw current half seemed to
bear along the slender boughs of the weeping willow as they
stooped to kiss the sti^am.^

In such a scene as this, Henry's soothed spirit would some-
times burst into song — such song as Louis' fondly thought
no one had ever heard before. It was in truth a style of
singing as rare as it was exquisite, in which eflect was com-
pletely sacrificed to expression, and the melody, however
beautiful, seemed merely an adjunct to the most perfect and
delicious recitation. Perhaps none but the writer of the
words (and yet, considered as poetry, the words were trifling
enpugh) could have afforded to ibake that round and mellow
voice, and that consummate knowledge of music, that extra-
ordinary union of taste and execution, so entirely secondary
to the feeling of the verse.

One great charm of Henry's singing was its spontaneity —
the manner in which, excited by the merest trifle, it gushed
forth in the middle of conversation, or broke out after a long
silence. How sweetly that skylark sings !" cried Louis one
morning, laying aside his oar that he might listen at his ease
— and the deep soothing cooing of the wood-pigeon, and
the sighing of the wind, and the rippling of the waters ! How
delightful are all natural sounds !"

Ay," rejoined Henry —

** There is a pure and holy spell
In all sweet sounds on earth that dwell :

The pleasant hum of the eiurly bee.

THE YOUNG BOULPTOR.

103

The whir of the tnail’d beetle’s wing.
Sailing heavily by at evening ;

And the nightingale, to poets say.

Wooing the rose in his matchless lay.

There is a pure and holy spell
In all sweet sounds on earth that dwell
'The Indian shell, whose faithful strain
Echoes the song of the distant main*;*

The streamlet gur;;ling through the trees.
The welcome sigh of the cool night breeze;
The cataract loud, the tempest high.

Hath each its thrilling melody.”

“ Yes/' continued Louis, after warmly thanking the singer
— for though the matter was little, the manner was much —
Yes ! and how much bAuty there is in almost every scene,
if people had but the faculty, not of looking for it — that were
too much to expect — but of seeing it when it lies before
them. Look at the corner of that meadow as it comes sloping
down to the water, with th^ cattle clustered under the great
oak, and that little thicket of flowery hawthorn and shining
holly, and golden-blossom ed broom, with the tangled sheep-
walk threading it, and forming a bower fit for any princess.”
Again Henry answered in song —

* She lay beneath the forest shade
As midst its leaves a lily fair —

Sleeping she lay, young Kala^rade,

Nor dreamt that mortal hover’d tb^e.

AH as she slept, a sudden smile
Play’d round her lip in dimpling grace,

And softest blushes glanced the while
In roseate beauty o’er her face ;

And then those blushes pass’d away
From her ])ure check, and Kalasrade
Pale as a new.blown lily lay,

31 umbering beneath the foptt shade.

Oh ! lovely was that blush so ipeek,

That smile half playful, half demure.

And lovelier still that pallid cheek —

That look so gentle yet so pure.

I left her in her purity.

Slumbering beneath the forest glade ;

1 fear’d to meet her waking eye.

The young, the timid Kalasrade.

1 left her ; yet by day, by night,

Dwells in my soul that image fair.

Madd’ning as thoughts of past delight,

At guilty hope, as fierce despair.”

Is that subject quite imaginary ? ” Louis at last ventured
to inquire, taking care, however, from an instinctive delicacy
that he would have found it difiicult to account for, to resume
his oar and turn away from Henry as he spoke — or did

19^ THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

you ever really see a sleeping beauty in a bower, such as I was
fancying just now ? ”

It is and it is not imaginary, Louis,** replied Henry, sigh-
ing deeply ; or rather, it is a fancy piece, grounded, as
rhymes and pictures often are, on some slight foundation of
truth. Wandering in the neighbourhood of Rome, I strayed
accidentally into the private grounds of an English nobleman,
and saw a beautiful girl sleeping as I have described under a
bay-tree, in the terraced Italian garden. I withdrew as
silently as possible, the more so as 1 saw another young lady,
her sister, approaching, who, in endeavouring to dispose a
branch of the bay- tree, so as to sheUfer the fair sleeper from
the sun, awakened her.”

What a subject for a group !** exclaimed Louis. Did
you never attempt to model the two sisters ? **

It is a line subject,** replied Henry ; and it has been
attempted, but not completed. Do you not remember singling
out a sketch of the recumbent figure, the other day, when you
were turning over my drawings?**

^^Yes, and saying how like it was to the exquisite bust
marked 'EAENII. — Helena ! But all your female figures are
more or less like that Helen. She is your goddess of beauty.**

Perhaps so,” rejoined Henry. But where are we now?
Is this the old church of Castlebar which you were promising
to show me, with its beautiful tower, and the great yew-trees ?
Yes, it must be. You are right in your admiration, Louis.
That tower is beautiful, with its fine old masonry, the quaint
fantastic brickwork left, to the honour of the rector’s taste, in
the rich tinting of its own weather stains, undaubed by white-
wash, and contrasting so gracefully with the vivid foliage of
that row of tall limes behind. A strange tree for a church-
yard, Louis, the honeyed, tasseled lime ! And yet how often
we see it there blending with the dark funereal yew — like life
with death ! I should like to be buried in that spot.”

Nay,** said Louis, a churchyard is sometimes devoted
to gayer purposes than burials. Hark ! even now!” and as
he spoke the bells struck up a merry peal, the church-door
opened^ and the little procession of a rustic wedding, — the
benign clergyman looking good wishes, the sniirking clerk,
the '"hearty jolly bridal-father, the simpering bride-maidens,
the laughing bridesmen — and the pretty, blushing, modest

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

195

bride, listening with tearful smiles to the fond and happy
lover-husband, on whose arm she hung — issued from the
porch. I should like just such a wife as that myself,”
added Louis, talking of marrying as a clever boy of thirteen
likes to talk * ; “ should not you ? ”

But Henry made no answer — he was musing on another
wedding ; and after a silence of some duration, in the course
of which they had rowed away almost out of hearing of the
joyous peal that still echoed merrily from the church tower,
he broke again forth into song —

NippM where the leaflet* sprout anew,

“ Forth the lovely bride ye bring ;

Gayest flowers before her fling,

From your high-piled baskets spread,

Maidens of the fairy tread !

Strew them for and wide, and high,

A rosy shower ’twixt earth and slcy,

Strew about ! strew about !

Larkspur trim, and poppy dyed.

And freak’d carnation’s bursting pride,

Strew about! strew about!

Dark-cyed pinks, with fringes light,

Rich geraniums, clustering bright.

Strew about I strew about !

Flaunting pea, and harebell blue.

And damask-rosc, of deepest hue.

And purest lilies. Maidens, strew !

Strew about! strew about !

Home the lovely bride ye bring.

Choicest flowers before her fling
Till dizzying steams of rich perfume
Fill the lofty banquet room !

Strew the tender citron there,

The crush’d magnolia proud and rare.

Strew about! strew about!

Orange blossoms newly dropp’d,

Chains from high acacia cropp’d
Strew about ! strew about !

Pale musk-rose, so light and fine
Cloves and stars of jessamine.

Strew about ! strew about!

Tops of myrtle, wet with dew,

Nipp’d where the leaflets sprout anew.

Fragrant bay-leaves. Maidens, strew,

Strew about! strew about ! ”

Louis was about to utter some expression of admiration^
which the ringing air, and the exquisite taste and lightness of

* It was somewhere about that ripe age that a very clever friend of mine,
travelling in the North with a young clergyman, his private tutor, wrote to his
mother a letter beginning as follows : —

“ Gretna Green, Thursday.

** My dear Mother, — Here we are, in the very land of love and matrimony ; and
it is a thousand pities that my little wife is not here with us, for Mr. G. being at
hand, we could strike up a wedding without loss of time, and my father and Mr.D.
would have nothing to do but to settle the income and the dowry at their leisure.**
So lightly are those matters considered at thirteen ! At three-and-thirty the case is
altered.

196 THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

the singings well deserved, when he perceived that the artist,
absorbed in his own feelings and recollections, was totally un-
conscious of his presence. Under the influence of such asso-
ciations, he sang, with a short pause between them, the two
following airs : —

** They bid me strike the harp once more,

My gayest song they bid me pour.

In pealing notes of minstrel pride
They bid me hail Sir Hubert’s bride.

Alas ! alas ! the nuptial strain
Faltering I try and try in vain ; /

’Twas pleasant once to wake its spell —

But not for Lady Isabel.

They bid me vaunt in lordly fay
Sir Hubert’s mien and sniri’t gay.

His wide demesnes and lineage high,

And all the pride of chivalry.

Alas ! alas ! the knightly lay
In trembling murmurs dies away ;

’Twere sweet the warrior’s fame to tell —

But not to Lady Isabel..!

They bid me blend in tenderest song
The lover’s fears, unutter’d long,

With the bold bridegroom’s rapturous glee.

And vows of endless constancy.

Alas ! alas ! my voice no more
Can tale of happy passion pour ;

To love, to joy, a long farewell ! — •

Yet blessings on thee, Isabel ! ”

“ filths thee ! I may no longer stay ! ''

No longer bid tliec think on me ;

I cannot ’bide thy bridal day —

But, Helen, 1 go blessing thee.

Bless thee ! no vow of thine is broke ;

I ask’d not thy dear love for me ;

Though tears, and sighs, and blushes spoke —

Yet, Helen, 1 go blessing thee.

Bless thee! yet do not quite, forget;

Oh, sometimes, sometimes, pity me !

My sun of life is early set—

But, Helen, 1 die blessing thee.”

And then the minstrel sank into a silence too sad and too
profound for Louis to venture to interrupt, and the lady —
for Kalasrade, Isabel, and Helena ('EAENH), was clearly one
— the Helen of the lover s thought was never again mentioned
between them.

Jiis spirits, however, continued to amend, although his
health fluctuating ; and having at length fixed on the
Procesaion in honctr of Pan, from Keats’s Endymion,** as

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 197

the subject of a great work in basso-relievo, and having con-
trived, with Louis’s assistance, to fit up a shed in the most
retired part of the ruins, as a sort of out-of-door studio, he
fell to work with the clay and the modelling tools with an
ardour and intensity partaking, perhaps, equally of the strength
of youth and the fever of disease, of hope, and of despair.

These mixed feelings were in nothing more evinced than
in the choice of his subject ; for eminently suited as the pas-
sage in question * undoubtedly was to his own classical taste
and graceful execution, it is certain that he was attracted to
the author, not merely by his unequal and fitful genius, his
extraordinary pictorial and plastic power, but by a sympathy,
an instinctive sympathy, with his destiny. Keats had died
young, and with his talent unacknowledged, — and so he felt
should he.

In the mean while he laboured strenuously at the Endy-
mion, relinquishing his excursions on the water, and confining
his walks to an evening ramble on Sunham Common, pleased
to watch Bijou (who had transferred to our artist much of
the allegiance which he had formerly paid to his old master,
and even preferred him to Louis) frisking among the gorse,
or gambolling along the shores of the deep irregular pools
which, mingled with islets of cottages and cottage-gardens,
form so picturesque a foreground to the rich landscapes
beyond.

Better still did he love to seek the deep solitude of the
double avenue of old oaks that skirted the upper part of the
common ; and there —

“ Like hermit near his cross of stone
To pace at eve the silent turf alone, *

And softly breathe or inly muse a prayer.” '

Rhynwit Pica for Tolerancc.i

]Morc fitting place for such meditation he could hardly have
found than that broad avenue of columned trunks, the laughs
arching over his head, a natural temple ! the shadows falling

* Vide note 1, at the end of the paper. !

+ A poem of which (if it were not presumptuous in me to praise such a work) I
should say, that it united the pregnant sense and the beautiful versification of Pope,
the eloquent philosophy of Wordsworth, the wide humanity of Scott, and the fer-
vent holiness of Cowiier, with a spirit of charity all its own. That little volume is
a just proof (if such were neeiled) how entirely intellect of the very highest class
belongs to virtue. The work is out of print : must it continue so ? Is it ouite con-
sistent in one imbued with so sincere a love for his fellow-creatures to withhold from
them such an overfiowiiig source of profit and dclightJ^

0 3

IDS

THE YOUNO SCULPTOH.

heavily as between the pillared aisles of some dim cathedral^
and the sunbeams just glinting through the massive foliage,
as if piercing the Gothic tracery of some pictured window.
The wind came sweeping along the branches, with a sound at
once solemn and soothing ; and to a mind high-wrought and*
fancy-fraught as Henry’s, the very song of the birds as they
sought their nests in the high trees had something pure and
holy as a vesper-hymn.

The sweetest hour in all the day to Henry M’^arner was
that of his solitary walk in the avenue. Quite solitary it was
always ; for Louis had discovered that this was the only plea-
sure which his friend wished to enjoy unshared, and with
instinctive delicacy contrived to keep away at that hour.

The only person who ever accosted Henry on these occa-
sions w'as our good friend Stephen Lane, who used sometimes
to meet him when returning from his farm, and who, won,
first by his countenance, and then by his manner, and a little,
perhaps, by the close but often unsuspected approximation
which exists between the perfectly simple and the highly re-
fined, had taken what he called a fancy to the lad, and even
forgave him for prognosticating that Louis would some day or
other be a painter of no common order, — that he had the
feeling of beauty and the eye for colour, the inborn taste and
the strong love of art which indicate genius. ‘‘ So much the
worse!” thought our friend Stephen; but such was the re-
spect excited by tlie young artist’s gentleness and sweetness,
that, free-spoken as he generally was on all matters, the
good butcher, on this solitary occasion, kept his thoughts to
himself.

In strenuous application to the Procession, and lonely twi-
light walks, the summer and part of the autumn passed away.
One bright October evening, Stephen, who had been absent
for , some weeks on a visit to a married daughter, met the
young sculptor in his usual haunt, Sunham Avenue, and was
struck with the alteration in his appearance. Crabbe has
described such an alteration with his usual graphic felicity : —

“ Then hi* thin cheek assumet! a deadly hue,

And all the rose to one small gpot withdrew :

They call’d it hectic ; ’twa* a hery flush
More flx'd and decfier than the maiden blush ;

Hia paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed.

And labouring lungs the lengthening speech opposed.**

/•arrsA llegUter,

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

199

But^ perhaps^ Hayley’s account of his son still more resem-
bles Henry Warner^ because it adds the mind’s strength to the
body’s extenuation. Couldst thou see him now ” — he is
addressing Flaxman —

“ Thou might'st suppose I had before thee brought
A Christian martyr by Ghiberti wrought,

So pain has crush’d his form with dire controul,

And so the seraph Patience arm’d his sou).”

Lettei's on Sculpture.

He was leaning against a tree in the full light of the bright
Hunter s moon, wlien Stephen accosted him with his usual
rough kindness, and insisted on his accepting the support of
his stout arm to help him home. Henry took it gratefully ;
in truth, he could hardly have walked that distance without
such an aid ; and for some time they walked on slowly and in
silence ; the bright moonbeams chequering the avenue, sleep-
ing on the moss-grown thatch of the cottage roofs, and play-
ing with a silvery radiance on the clear ponds that starred the
common. It was a beautiful scene, and Henry lingered to
look upon it, when his companion, admonished by the fallen
leaves, damp and dewy under foot, and the night wind sigh-
ing through the trees, begged him not to loiter, chiding him,
as gently as Stephen could chide, for coming so far at such
an hour.

It was foolish,” replied Henry ; “ but I love these trees,
and 1 shall never see them again.’^ And then he smiled, and
began talking cheerfully of the bright moonbeams, and their
fine effect upon the water ; and Stephen drew the back of his
hard huge hand across his eyes, and thought himself a great
fool, and wondered how sweet smiles and hopeful happy words
should make one sad ; and when an acorn dropped from a
tree at his feet, and the natural thought passed through his
mind, Poor youth, so he will fall!” Stephen had nothing
for it but to hem away the choking sensation in his throat,
and begin to lecture the invalid in good earnest.

After landing him safely in his own parlour, and charging
Louis to take care of his friend, Stephen drew his good hostess
to the gate of her little garden :

This poor lad must have the best advice, Mrs. Duval.”

Oh, Mr. Lane ! he won't hear of it. The expense ’’

Hang the expense, woman ! he shall have advice,” reite-
rated Stephen ; “ he must, and he shall.”

o 4

THE YOUNG SOUIMOQ.

200

Ob, Mr. Lane ! 1 have begged and entreated,** rejoined
Mrs. Duval, and so has Louis. But the expense ! For all
he pays me so regularly, I am sure that he is poor — very
poor. ''He lives upon next to nothing ; and is so uneasy if I
get him any little thing better than ordinary ! — and Louis
caught him the other day arranging his drawings and casts,
and putting up his books, and writing letters about them^to
some gentleman in Lohdon, to pay for his funeral, he said,
and save me trouble after he was dead : — I thought Louis
would have broken his heart. He reckoned upon selling that
fine work in the shed here — the Procession — I forget what
they call it, and it’s almost finished ; but he’s too weak to
work upon it |^ow, and I know that it frets him, though he
never utters a complaint And then, if he dies, my poor boy
will die too ! **

Could not one manage to make him take a bit of money,
somehow, as a loan, or a gift ? ** inquired Stephen, his hand
involuntarily seeking his breeches pocket, and pulling out a
well-laden canvas- bag.

No,** replied ISIrs. Duval^' that ’s impossible. The
poorer he gets, the prouder he grows. You could no more
persuade him to take money than to send for a doctor.**

Dang it! he shall, though I” returned honest Stephen.
We’ll see about that in the morning. In the mean while,
do you go home with me, and try if you and my mistress
can *t find something that the poor lad will like. She has
been making some knick-knacks to-day, I know, for little
Peggy ovy grand-daughter, who has been ill, and whom we
have brought home for change of air. Doubtless there *11 be
some to spare, — and if there is not, he wants it worst,**

And in an half-an-hour Mrs. Duval returned to the Friary
Cottage, laden with old wine and niceties of all sorts from the
well-furnished store closet, and a large basin of jelly of dear
Mrs. Lane*s own making. Ill as he was, and capricious as is
a sick man’s appetite, our invalid, who, like everybody that
had ever seen her, loved Margaret Lane, could not reject the
viands which came so recommended.

The next morning saw Stephen an unexpected visitor in the
young sculptor s studio, fixed in wondering admiration before
the great work. A procession in honour of Pan ! ** repeated
the good butcher. Well, Tm no great judge, to be sure.

THS YOtNG SCULPTOR,

SOI

but I like it, young man ; and 1*11 tell you why I like it,
because it’s full of spirit and life ; the folk are all moving.
Dang it I look at that horse’s bead ! how he’s , tossing it back !
And that girl’s petticoat, how light and dancy it seems ! And
that lamb, poking its little head out of the basket, — ay, that’s
right, bleat away ! One would ^ think yoU had been as much
amongst them as I have.”

Henry was charmed with Stephei/s criticism, and frankly
told him so.

Well, then ! ” continued Mr. Lane, “ since you tliink me
such a good judge of your handiwork, you must let me buy
it.* Tell me your price," added he, pulling out an enormous
brown leather book, well stuffed with bank-notes ; I’m th
man for a quick bargain."

Buy the relievo ! But, my deajr Mr. Lane, what will you
do with it ? " replied the artist. Handsome as your new
house at Sunham is, this requires space and distance,
and " ^ ,

I’m not going to put'^Jn any house of mine, I promise
you, my lad," replied Mr. Lane, half affronted. ‘‘ I hope I
know better what is fitting fbr a plain tradesman ; and if I
don’t, my Margaret does. But I’ll tell you what I mean to do
with it," continued he, recovering his good humour, — it
was my wife’s thought. I shall make a present of it to the
corporation, to put up in the Town-hall. I’ve been a rare
plague to them all my life, and it is but handsome, now that
I am going away as far as Sunham, to make up with them ;
so 1 shall send them this as a parting gift. D^g it ! how
well it’ll look in the old hall ! ” shouted he, drowning with his
loud exclamations poor Henry’s earnest thanks, and unfeigned
reluctance — for Henry felt the real motive of a purchase so
much out of the good butcher’s way, and tried to combat his
resolution. I will have it, I tell you I But I make one
condition, that you’ll see a doctor this very day, and that you
are not to touch the Procession again till he gives you leave.
I certainly shan’t send it to them till the spring. And now
tell me the price, for have it I will ! ”

And the price was settled, though with considerable diffi-
culty, of an unusual kind ; the estimate of the patron being
much higher than that of the artist. The purchase w’as com-
* Vide note 2, at the end of the {taper.

202

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR,

pleted — but the work was never finished : for before the last
acorn fell, Stephen’s forebodings were accomplished, and the
young sculptor and his many sorrows, his hopes, his fears,
his high aspirations, and his unhappy love, were laid at rest
in the peaceful grave. The only work of his now remaining
at Belford is a monument to the memory of the poor Abbe,
executed from one of Louis’ most simple designs.

Nofe 1. — The poetry of John Keats is, like all poetry of a
very high style and very unequal execution, so much more
talked of than really known, that I am tempted to add the
Hymn to Pan, as well as the Procession, which is necessary
to the comprehension of my little story. Perhaps it is the
finest and most characteristic specimen that could be found of
his wonderful pictorial power.

PROCESSION AND HYMN IN HONOUR OF PAN.

Leading the way, young danueta dancetl along,

Bearing the burden ol‘a sheph^rd^song;

Each having a white wicker ov^j^rimin’d

With April's tender youngiings: next, well trimm’d,

A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian hooks;

Such as sate listening round Apollo's pipe.

When the ^eat deity, for earth too ri|)e,

Let his divinity o’erdowing die
In music through the vales of Thessaly :

Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground.

And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
With ebon-tipped dntes: close after these.

Now coming from beneath the forest trees,

A v^erabie priest full soberly

Begirt with ministering looks ; always his eye

Stedfast u)x>n the matted turf be kept,

And after him his sacred vestments swept.

From his right hand there swung a vase, milk white.

Of mingled wine out-sparkling generous light ;

And in his left he held a basket full

Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull ;

Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
Than LetU’s love, and cresses from the rill.

His aged head, crowned with becchen wreath,

Seem’d like a poll of ivy, in the teeth
Of Winter hoar. Then came another crowd
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
Their share of the ditty. After them appear’d,

Up-followr’d by a multitude that rear’d
Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car,

Easily rolling, so as scarce to mar

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown.

Who stood therein did seem of great renown
Among the throng ; his youth was Aiily blown,
bhowing like Ganymede to manhood grown ;

THE YOUNG SCULPTOB.

20$

And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain-king’s: beneath his breast, halt bare,

Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees thoie lay a Loar-spear keen.

A smile was on his countenance ; he seem’d
To common lookers-on like one who dream’d
Of idleness in groves Eljsian:
jBut there were some who feelingly could scan
A. lurking trouble in his nether-lip.

And see that uttentimes the rcitib would slip
Through his fergotlen hands : then would they sigh,
And think of yellow leaves, of owlet’s cry,

Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-dayl
Wliy should our j oung Kndyinion pine away ?

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged.

Stood silent round the shrine : each look was changed
To sudden veneration ; women meek
Heckon’d their sons to silence ; while each check
Of virgin-bloom paled gently for slight fear;

Endymion too, without a forcfct peer.

Stood wan and wale, and with an unawed face,

Among his brothers of the mountain-chase.

In midst of all, the venerable priest

Eyed tliein with joy from greatest to the least,

And, afd r lilting up his aged hands,

'i'hiKs spake ho : — “ .Men of Latinos! shepherd bands
Whose care it is to guard u thousand flocks :

Whether descended from beneath the rocks
'i hat overto)) your mountains ; whether tome
Erom ^ alleys wlieie the pipe is never dumb ;

Or from yoiir swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue hurebells lightly, and wnejre prickly futze
Buds lavish gold ; or ye, \vlios®precious charge
Nibble their till at Ocean’s veiy marge.

Whose mellow reeds are touched witli sounds forlorn,
Bv the (l:m echoes of old Triton’s horn:

'IVfothers and wives ! who tiay by day pie|>are
The scrij) with needments for the mountain air j
Ami all ye gentle girls, wlio foster up
IJdderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favour’d youth :

Yea, every one attend! for in giK'd truth
Our vows are wanting to our great god Tan.

Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
Night swolU’M mushrooms V Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains
Green’d over April’s lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful iwes ; and we have had
Great bounty from Endymion our lord.

The earth is glad : the merry lark has ))Our'd
His early song against yon breezy sky.

That spreads so clear o’er our solemnity.”

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap’d a spire
Ofteeming sweets, enkindling sacred tire;

Anon lie stain’d the thick and H|K>ngy sod
With wine in honour of the She|>herd-god."

Now while the earth was drinking it, and while
Bay-leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,

And gummy trankincense was sparkling bright
'Neath smotliering parsley, and a hazy light
Spread grayly e.iitward, Uius a chorus sang:

“ O thou I whose mighty palace roof doth hang
Trom jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of uuscen flowers in heavy peaceful nes« :

204

THE YOUNG SCULPTORi

Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress
Tlieir ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken,

And through whole solemn hours dost sit^and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds, *

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth j
Bethinking thee how melancholy loath
Thou wert to lose fair Syrinx— do thou now.

By thy love’s milky brow.

By all’thc trembling mazes that she ran.

Hear us, great Pan !

“ O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet turtles
Passion their voices cooingly among myrtles,

What time thou wanderett at eventide
Through sunny meadows that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom
Broad.Ieaved fig trees even now foredoom
Their ripen’d fruitage; yellow-girted bees
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas
Their fairest blossom’d beans and poppied com ;

The chuckling linnet its five young unborn.

To sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness ; pent-up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year
All its completions — be quickly near, ,

By every wind that nods the mountain pine,

O Forester divine!

“ Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare, while in half-sleeping fit ;

Or upward ragged precipices fiit ;

To save poor lambkins from the eagle’s maw ;

Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewilder’d Shepherds to their path again ;

Or to tread breathless round the frothy main.

And gather up all fancifbllest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads’ cells.

And, being hidden, laugh at their out-pceping ;

Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping.

The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak-apples and fir-cones brown ; — .

By all the echoes that about thee ring.

Hear us, O hutyr-Ruig I

“ O hoarkener to the loud.clapping shears.

While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A lamb goes bleating : winder of tne horn.

When snorting wilcl.brmrs routing tender corn
Anger oar huntsmen ; breather round our farms
Tp keep off* mildews and all weather harms :
grange ministrant of ur.dcscrilicd sounds
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds.

And wither drcarilji^OD barren moors
Dread opener of the mysterious doors*
lading to universal Iciiowlcdge— see.

Great son of Dry ope !

The many that are come to |>ay their vows
With leaves about their brows! —

Be still the unimaginable lodge

For solitary thinkings; such as dodge

Concqition to the very bourne pf Heaven,

Then leave the naked brain ; be still the leaven
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal — a neW birth :

Be still a symbol of immensity;

A fimament reflected in a sea ;

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR,

206

An element filling the opace between ;

An unknown — but no more: we humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads lowly bending,

And giving out a shout most hcaven>rending,

Conjure thee to receive our humble psan
Upon^thy mount Lycean ! **

Everwhilc they brought the burden to a close
A shout from the whole multitude arose
That linger’d in the air like dying roils
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.

Meantime on shady levels, mossy tine.

Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swiil treble pipe and humming string :

Ay, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten, out of memory ;

Fair creatures, whose young children’s children bred
ThermopylsR its heroes, not yet dead.

But in old marbles ever beautiful.

Keats’s Endymion.

Note 2. — Let not Stephen Lane’s conduct be called un-
natural ! 1 do verily beUeve that there is no instance that

can be invented of generosity and delicacy that might not
find a parallel amongst the middle classes of England^ the
affluent tradesmen of the metropolis and the great, towns^
who often act as if they held their riches on the tenure of
benevolence.

With regard to Stephen Lane s purchase, 1 happen to be
furnished with a most excellent precedent — a case com-
pletely in point, and of very recent occurrence. It was told
to me, and most charmingly told, by one whom I am proud
to be permitted to call my friend, the Lady Madalina Palmer,
who related the story with the delightful warmth with which
generous people speak of generosity ; — and I have now
bdfore me a letter from one of the parties concerned, which
states the matter better still. But that letter 1 must not
transcribe, and Lady Madalina is too far off to dictdlte to me
in the pretty Scptch, which, from her, one likes better than
English; so that I am fain to record the naked facts as
simply and ^briefly as possible, leaving them to produce their
own effect on those who love the arts, and who admire a
warm-hearted liberality ip every rank of life.

Some time in Ndvember, 1831, Mr. Cribb, an ornamental
gilder in London, a superb artist in hU line, and employed
in the most delicate and finest work by the Duke of Devon.

206

THE YOUNG SCULPTOR,

shire and other men of taste amongst the high nobility, was
fitruck with a small picture — a cattle piece — in a shop
window in Greek Street. On inquiring for the artist, he could
hear no tidings of him ; but the people of the shop promised
to find him out. Time after time our persevering lover of the
Arts called to repeat his inquiries, but always unsuccessfully,
until about three months after, when he found that the person
he sought was a Mr. Thomas Sydney Gooper, an Knglish
artist, who had been for many years settled at Brussels as a
drawing-master, but had been driven from that city by the
revolution, which had deprived him of his pupils, amongst
whom were some members of the royal family, and, unable
to obtain employment in London as a cattle painter, had,
with the generous self-devotion which most ennobles a man
of genius, supported his family by making lithographic
drawings of fashionable caps and bonnets, — 1 suppose as a
puff for some milliner, or some periodical which deals in
costumes. In the midst of this interesting family, and of
these caps and bonnets, Mr. Cribb found him ; ami deriving
from what he saw of his sketches and drawings additional
conviction of his genius, immediately commissioned him to
paint him a picture on his own subject and at his own price,
making such an advance as the richest artist would not
scruple to accept on a commission, conjuring him to leave
off caps and bonnets, and foretelling his future eminence, Mr.
Cribb says that he shall never forget the delight of Mrs. Cooper’s
face when he gave the order — he has a right to the luxury
of such a recollection. Well ! the picture was completed,
and when completed, our friend Mr. Cribb, who is not a man
to do hi8 work by halves, bespoke a companion, and, while
that was painting, showed the first to a great number of
artists and gentlemen, who all ^reed in expressing the
Wrongest admiration, and in wondering where the painter
could have been hidden. Before the second picture was half
finished, a Mr. Carpenter (1 believe that I am right in the
name) gave Mr. Cooper a commission for a piece, which was
exhibited in May, 1833, at the Suffolk Street Gallery ; and
from that moment orders poured in, and the artist’s fortune is
made*

It is right to add, that Mr. Cooper was generously eager to
have this story made known, and Mr. Cribb as generously

MATCH-MAKING.

207

averse from its publication. But surely it ought to be re
corded, for the example’s sake, and for their mutual honour*
I ought also to say, that it is only in heart, and pocket, and
station that Mr. Cribb resembles my butcher; the former
being evidently a man of fair education and excellent taste.
Oh ! that I could have printed his account of this matter ! It
was so natural, so naif, so characteristic, so amusing. I dared
not commit such a trespass on the sacredness of private com-
munication ; but I shall keep it to my dying day, and leave it
to my heirs ; so that if hereafter, some sixty years hence, a
future Allan Cunningham shall delight the world with an-
other series of Lives of the Painters, the history of the English
Paul Potter may be adorned and illustrated by the warm-
hearted and graphic narrative of his earliest patron.

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. II.

MATCH-MAKING.

The proudest of all our proud country gentlewomen, — she
who would most thoroughly have disdained the unlucky town
ladies, who are destined to look on brick walls instead of green
trees, and to tread on stone pavements instead of gravel walks,
— was beyond all doubt my good friend Mrs. Leslie.

Many years ago, a family of that name came to reside in
our neighbourhood ; and being persons thoroughly comme il
faut, who had taken, on a long lease, the commodious and
creditable mansion called Hallenden Hall, with its large park-
like paddock, its gardens, greenhouses, conservatories, and so
forth, — and who evidently intended to live in a style suited
to their habitation, — were immediately visited by the inmates
of all the courts, manors, parks, places, lodges, and castles
within reach.

Mr. Leslie was, as was soon discovered, a man of ancient
family and good estate, who had left his own county on the
loss of a contested election, or some such cause of disgust, and
had passed the last few years in London for the education of
his daughters. He was, too, that exceedingly acceptable and

SOS BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

somewhat rare thing, a lively, talking, agreeable man, very
clever and a little quaint, and making his conversation tell as
much by a certain off-handedness of phrase and manner, as by
the shrewdness of his observations, and his extensive know,
ledge of the world. He had aho, besides his pleasantry and
good humour, another prime requisite for country popularity :
although greatly above the general run of his neighbours in
intellect, he much resembled them in his tastes ; — loved
shooting, fishing, and hunting in the morning ; liked good
dinners, good wine, and a snug rubber at night ; farnred with
rather less loss of money than usually befalls a gentleman ;
was a staunch partisan at vestries and turnpike .meetings ; a
keen politician at the reading-room and the club ; frequented
races and coursing meetings ; had a fancy for the more busi-
ness-like gaieties of quarter sessions and grand juries ; accepted
a lieutenancy in the troop of yeomanry cavalry, and actually
served as churchwarden during the second year of his residence
in the parish. In a word, he was an active, stirring, bustling
personage, whose life of mind and thorough unaffectedness
made him universally acceptable to rich and poor. At first
sight there was a homeliness about him, a carelessness of
appearance and absence of pretension, which rather troubled
his more aristocratic compeers; but the gentleman was so
evident in all that he said or did, in tone and accent, act and
word, that his little peculiarities were speedily forgotten, or
only remembered to make him still more cordially liked.

If Mr. Leslie erred on the side of unpretendingness, his wife
took good care not to follow his example : she had pretensions
enough of all sorts to have set up twenty fine ladies out of her
mere superfluity. The niece of an Irish baron and the sister
of a Scotch countess, she fairly wearied all her acquaintance
with the titles of her relatives. “ My uncle, Lord Linton —
my brother-in-law, the Earl of Paisley," and all the Lady
Lucys, Lady Elizabeths, Lady Janes, and Lady Marys of the
one noble house, and the honourable masters and misses of the
other, were twanged in the ears of her husband, children, ser-
vants, and visitors, every day and all day long. She could
not say that the weather was fine without quoting my lord, or
order dinner without referring to my lady. This peculiarity
was the pleasure, the amusement of her life. Its business was
to display, and if possible to marry her daughters ; and I

MATCH-MAKING.

SJ09

think she cherished her grand connections the more, as being,
in some sort, implements or accessories in her designs upon
rich bachelors, than for any other cause ; since, greatly as she
idolised rank in her own family, she had seen too much of its
disadvantages when allied with poverty, not to give a strong
preference to wealth in the grand pursuit of husband-hunting.
She would, to be sure, have had no objection to an affluent
peer fot a son-in-law, had such a thing offered ; but as the
commodity, not too common anywhere, was particularly scarce
in our county, she wisely addressed herself to the higher order
of country squires, men of acres who inherited large territoriea
and fine places, or men of money who came by purchase into
similar possessions, together with their immediate heirs, leav-
ing the younger brothers of the nobility, in common with all
other .younger brothers, unsought and uncared-for.

Except in the grand matters of pedigrees and match-making,
my good friend Mrs. Leslie was a sufficiently common person ;
rather vulgar and dowdy in the morning, when, like many
country gentlewomen of her age and class, she made amendis
for unnecessary finery by more unnecessary shabbiness, and
trotted about the place in an old brown stuff gown, much re-
sembling the garment called a Joseph worn by our great-
grandmothers, surmounted by a weather-beaten straw bonnet
and a sun-burnt bay wig ; and particularly stately in an even-
ing, when silks and satins made after the newest fashion, caps
radiant with fiowers, hats waving with feathers, chandelier
ear-rings, and an ermine-lined cloak, the costly gift of a diplo-
matic relation — My cousin, the envoy,” rivalled in her talk
even “my sister the countess,”) — converted her at a stroke
into a chaperon of the very first water. ,

Her daughters, Barbara and Caroline, were pretty girls
enough, and would probably have been far prettier, had Na-
ture, in their case, only been allowed fair play. As it was,
they had been laced and braced, and drilled and starved, and
kept from the touch of sun, or air, or fire, until they had be-
come too slender, too upright, too delicate, both in figure and
complexion. To my eye they always looked as if they had
been originally intended to have been plumper and taller, with
more colour in their cheeks, more spring and vigour in thoir
motions, more of health and life about them, poor' things I
Neverthdless, they were prettyish girls, with fine hair, fine

p

210

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

eyes, fine teeth, and an expression of native good humour,
•which, by great luck, their preposterous education had not
been able to eradicate.

Certainly, if an injudicious education could have spoilt
young persons naturally well*4empered and well-disposed,
these poor girls would have sunk under its evil influence.
From seven years old to seventeen, they had been trained
for display and for conquest, and could have played without
ear, sung without voice, and drawn without eye, against any
misses of their inches in the county. Never were accomplish-
ments more thoroughly travestied. Barbara, besides the usual
young-lady iniquities of the organ, the piano, the harp, and the
guitar, distended her little cheeks like a trumpeter, by blowing
the flute and the flageolet ; whilst her sister, who had not
breath for the wind instruments, encroached in a different way
on the musical prerogative of man, by playing most outrage-
ously on the fiddle — a female Paganini I

They painted in all sorts of styles, from the human face
divine,” in oils, crayons, and miniatures, down to birds and
butterflies, so that the whole house was a series of exhibition
rooms ; the walls were hung with their figures and landscapes,
the tables covered with their sketches ; you sat upon their
performances in the shape of chair cushions, and trod on them
in the form of ottomans. A family likeness reigned through-
out these productions. Various in style, but alike in badness^
all were distinguished by the same uniform unsuccess. Nor
did they confine their attempts to the fine arts. There was
no end to their misdoings. They japanned boxes, embroidered
work-bags, gilded picture- frames, constructed pincushions,
bound books, and made shoes. For universality the admirable
Crichton was a joke to them. There was nothing in which
they had not failed.

During one winter (and winter is the season of a country
belle) Mrs. Leslie traded upon her daughters' accomplish-
ments. Every morning visit was an exhibition, every dinner
party a concert, and the unlucky assistants looked, listened,
yawned, and lied, and got away as soon as possible, according
to the most approved fashion in such cases. Half-a-year'e
experience, however, convinced the prudent mamma that
acquirements alone would not suffice for her purpose ; and
haying obtained for the Miss Leslies the desirable reputation

]lA.TCII-MAKINa.

211

of being the most accomplished young ladies in the neighbour-
hood, she relinquished the proud but unprofitable pleasure of
exhibition, and wisely addressed herself to the more hopeful
task of humouring the fancies and flattering the vanity of
others.

In this pursuit she displayed a degree of zeal, perseverance,
and resource, worthy of a better cause. Not a bachelor of
fortune within twenty miles, but Mrs, Leslie took care to be
informed of his tastes and habits, and to offer one or other of
her fair nymphs to his notice, after the manner most likely to
attract his attention and fall in with his ways. Thus, for a
whole season, Bab (in spite of the danger to her complexion)
hunted with the Copley hounds, riding and fencing* to ad-
miration— not in chase of the fox, poor girl, for which she
cared as little as any she in Christendom — but to catch, if it
might be, that eminent and wealthy Nimrod, Sir Thomas Cop-
ley, — who, after all, governed by that law of contrast which
so often presides over the connubial destiny, married a town
beauty, who never mounted a horse in her life, and would
have fainted at the notion of leaping a five-barred gate ; whilst
Caroline, with equal disregard to her looks, was set to feed
poultry, milk cows, make butter, and walk over ploughed fields
with Squire Thornley, an agriculturist of the old school, who
declared that his wife should understand the conduct of a farm
as well as of a house, and followed up his maxim by marrying
his dairy-maid. They studied mathematics to please a Cam-
bridge scholar, and made verses to attract a literary lord ;
taught Sunday schools and attended missionary meetings to
strike the serious ; and frequented balls, concerts, archery clubs,
and water-parties to charm the gay ; were every thing to every
body, seen every where, known to every one ; and yet at the
end of three years were, in spite of jaunts to Brighton, Chel-
tenham, and London, a trip Jo Paris, and a tour through
Switzerland, just as likely to remain the two accomplished
Miss Leslies as ever they had been. To wither on the virgin
stalk," seemed their destiny.

How this happened is difHcult to tell. The provoketl mo-
ther laid the fault partly on the inertness of her husband, who,

♦ By ** fencing,” I no not mean here practising ** the noble science of defence, *•
but something* sooth to say, almost as manly. 1 use the word in its fox-hunting
sense, and intend by it that Miss Barbara took flying leaps over hedges and ditches,
and five-barred gates.

P 2

212

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

lo say truth, had watched her manoeuvres with some amuse-
ment^ hut without using the slightest means to assist her
schemes ; and partly on the refractoriness of her son and heir,
a young gentleman who, although sent first to Eton^ most
aristocratic of public schools, and then to Christ Church, most
lordly of colleges, with the especial maternal injunction to
form good connections, so that he might pick up an heiress
for himself and men of fortune for his sisters, had, with un-
exampled perversity, cultivated the friendship of the clever,
the entertaining, and the poor, and was now on the point of
leaving Oxford without having made a single acquaintance
worth knowing. This, this was the unkindest cut of all;”
for Richard, a lad of good person and lively parts, had always
been in her secret soul his mother’s favourite ; and now, to
find him turn round on her, and join his father in laying the
blame of her several defeats on her own bad generalship and
want of art to conceal her designs, was really too vexatious,
especially as Barbara and Caroline, who had hitherto been
patterns of filial obedience, entering blindly into all her objects
and doing their best to bring them to bear, now began to show
symptoms of being ashamed of the unmaidenly forwardness
into which they had been betrayed, and even to form a reso-
lution (especially Barbara, who had more of her father’s and
brother’s sense than the good-natured but simple Caroline) not
to join in such manoeuvring again. It cannot be right in
me^ mamma,” said she one day, to practise pistol-shooting
with Mr. Greville, when no other lady does so ; and therefore,
if you please, 1 shall not go — I am sure you cannot wish me
to do anything not right.’"

Particularly as there’s no use in it,” added Richard:
" fire as often as you may, you’ll never hit that mark.”

And Mr. Greville and the pistol-shooting were given up ;
and Mrs. Leslie felt her authority shaken.

Afihirs were in this posture, when the arrival of a visitor
after her own heart — young, rich, unmarried, and a baronet
— renewed the hopes of our match-maker.

* For some months they had had at Hallenden Hall a very
unpretending, but in my mind a very amiable inmate, Ma^
Moiland, the only daughter of Mr. l^lie’s only sister, who,
her parents being dead, and herself and her brother left in in-
digent circumstances, had accepted her uncle’s invitation to

MATCH-MAKING.

91S

reside in his family as long as it suited her convenience, and
was now on the point of departing to keep her brother’s house^
a young clergyman recently ordained, who intended to eke out
the scanty income of his curacy by taking pupils, for which
arduous office he was eminently qualified by his excellent pri-
vate character and high scholastic attainments.

Mary Morland was that very delightful thing, an unaffected
intelligent young woman, well-read, well-informed, lively and
conversable. She had a good deal of her uncle’s acuteness and
talent, and a vein of pleasantry, which differed from his only
as much as pleasantry feminine ought to differ from pleasantry
masculine : he was humorous, and she was arch, I do not
know that I ever heard anything more agreeable than her flow
of sprightly talk, always light and sparkling, spirited and easy,
often rich in literary allusion, but never degenerating into pre-
tension or pedantry. She was entirely devoid of the usual
young-lady accomplishments (an unspeakable relief in that
house !) ; neither played, nor sung, nor drew, nor danced ;
made no demand on praise, no claim on admiration, and was
as totally free from display as from affectation in the exercise
of her great conversational power. Such a person is sure to
be missed, go where she may ; and every one capable of ap-
preciating her many engaging qualities felt, with Mr. Leslie,
that her loss would be irreparable at Hallenden.

The evil day however arrived, as such days are wont to
arrive, all too soon. William Morland was actually come to
carry his sister to their distant home ; for they were of the

North countrie,” and his curacy was situate in far Northum-
berland. He was accompanied by an old schoolfellow and
intimate friend, in whose carriage Mary and himself were to
perform their long journey ; and it was on this kind com-
panion, rich and young, a baronet and a bachelor, that Mrs.
Leslie at once set her heart for a son-in-law.

Her manoeuvres began the very evening of his arrival. She
had been kind to Miss Morland from the moment she ascer-
tained that she was a plain though lady-like woman of six-and-
twenty, wholly unaccomplished in her sense of the word, and
altogether the most unlikely person in the world to rival her
two belles. She had been always kind to poor dear Mary,”
as she called her ; but as soon as she beheld Sir Arthur Selby,,
she became the very fondest of aunts, insisted that Barbara

214

BELLES' OF THE BALL-ROOM.

should furnish her wardrobe and Caroline paint her portrait^
and that the whole party should stay until these operations
were satisfactorily concluded.

Sir Arthur, who seemed to entertain a great regard and
affection for his two friends, — who, the only children of the
clergyman of the parish, had been his old companions and
playmates at the manor-house, and from whom he had been
parted during a long tour in Greece, Italy, and Spain, — con-
sented with a very good grace to this arrangement ; the more
so as, himself a lively and clever man, he perceived, apparently
with great amusement, the designs of his hostess, and for the
first two or three days humoured them with much drollery ;
affecting to be an epicure, that she might pass off her cook’s
excellent confectionery for Miss Caroline's handiwork ; and
even pretending to have sprained his ankle, that he might
divert himself by observing in how many ways the same fair
lady — who, something younger, rather prettier, and far more
docile than her sister, had been selected by Mrs. Leslie for his
intended bride — would be pressed by that accomplished match-
maker into his service ; handing him his coffee, for instance,
fetching him books and newspapers, offering him her arm
when he rose from the sofa, following him about with foot-
stools, cushions, and ottomans, and waiting upon him just like
a valet or a page in female attire.

At the end of that period,, — from some unexplained change
of feeling, whether respect for his friend William Morland, or
weariness for acting a part so unsuited to him, or some relent-
ing in favour of the young lady, — he threw off at once his
lameness and his affectation, and resumed his own singularly
natural and delightful manner. I saw a great deal of him,
for my father's family and the Selbys had intermarried once
or twice in every century since the Conquest ; and though it
might have puzzled a genealogist to decide honr near or how
distant was the relationship, yet, as amongst North-country folk
" blood is warmer than water,” we continued not only to call
each other cohsins, but to entertain much of the kindly feeling
by which family connection often is, and always should be, ac-
^companied. My father and Mr. Leslie had always been inti-
mate, ahd Mary Morland and myself having taken a strong
likihg to each other, w e met at one house or the other almost
every day ; and, accustomed as I was to watch the progress of

BIATCH-MAKINO.

215

Mrs. Leslie’s manoeuvres, the rise, decline, and fall of her
several schemes, 1 soon perceived that her hopes and plans
were in full activity on the present occasion.

It was, indeed, perfectly evident that she expected to hail
Caroline as Lady Selby before many months were past; and
she had more reason for the belief than had often hap-
pened to her, inasmuch as Sir Arthur not only yielded with
the best possible grace to her repeated entreaties for the post-
ponement of his journey, but actually paid the young lady
considerable attention, watching the progress of her portrait
of Miss Morland, and aiding her not only by advice but
assistance, to the unspeakable benefit of the painting, and
even carrying his complaisance so far as to ask her to sing
every evening, — he being the very first person who had
ever voluntarily caused the issue of those notes, which more
resembled the screaming of a macaw than the tones of a
human being. To be sure, he did not listen, — that would
have been too much to expect from mortal ; but he not only
regularly requested her to sing, but took care, by suggesting
single songs, to prevent her sister from singing with her, —
who, thus left to her own devices, used to sit in a corner
listening to William Morland with a sincerity and earnestness
of attention very different from the make-believe admiration
which she had been used to show by her mamma’s orders to
the clever men of fortune whom she had been put forward to
attract. That Mrs. Leslie did not see what was going forward
in that quarter, was marvellous ; but her whole soul was en-
grossed by the desire to clutch Sir Arthur, and so long as he
called upon Caroline for bravura after bravura, for scena after
scena, she was happy.

Mr. Leslie, usually wholly inattentive to such proceedings,
was on this occasion more clear-sighted. He asked Mary Mor-
land one day “ whether she knew what her brother and Sir
Arthur were about and, on her blushing and hesitating in
a manner very unusual with her, added, chucking her under
the chin, A word to the wise is enough, my queen : I am
not quite a fool, whatever your aunt may be, and so you may
tell the young gentlemen.'’ And with that speech he walked off*.

The next morning brought a still fuller declaration of his
sentiments. Sir Arthur had i^eceived, by post, a letter which
had evidently affected him greatly, and had handed it to Wil-

p 4?

n6

BELLES OE THE BALL'^-ROOU.

liam Morlatid, who read it with equal emotion ; but neither
of them had mentioned its contents^ or alluded to it in any
manner. After breakfast, the young men walked olF together,
and the girls separated to their different employments. I, who
had arrived there to spend the day, was about to join them,
when I was stopped by Mr. Leslie. I want to speak to
you,” said he, about that cousin of yours. My wife thinks
he*s going to marry Caroline; whereas it*s plain to me, as
doubtless it must be to you, that whatever attention he may
be paying to that simple child — and, for my own part, I don’t
see that he is paying her any — is merely to cover William
Morland’s attachment to Bab. So that the end of Mrs. Leslie’s
wise schemes will be, to have one daughter the wife of a
country curate ”

“ A country curate, Mr. Leslie ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Leslie,
holding up her hands in amazement and horror.

** And the other,” pursued Mr. Leslie, an old maid.”

An old maid ! ” reiterated Mrs. Leslie, in additional dis-
may — An old maid I ” Her very wig stood on end. But
what further she would have said was interrupted by the en-
trance of the accused party.

I am come, Mr. Leslie,” said Sir Arthur, — do not move,
Mrs. Leslie — pray stay, my dear cousin, — I am come to
present to you a double petition. The letter which I received
this morning was, like most human events, of mingled yarn —
it brought intelligence of good and of evil. I have lost an
old and excellent friend, the rector of Donleigh-cum-Appleton,
and have, by that loss, an excellent living to present to iny
friend William Morland. It is above fifteen hundred a- year,
with a large house, a fine garden, and a park-like glebe, alto-
gether a residence fit for any lady ; and it comes at a moment
in wbich such a piece of preferment is doubly welcome, since
the first part of my petition relates to him. Hear it favour-
ably, my dear sir — my dear madam ; he loves your Barbara — ^
and Barbara, I hope and believe, loves him.”

There, Mrs. Leslie!” interrupted Mr. Leslie, with an
arch nod. There ! do you hear that ? ”

You are both favourably disposed, I am sure,” resumed
Sir Arthur. Such a son-in-law must be an honour to any
man-o-must he not, my dear madam ? — and I, for my part,
have a brother s interest in his suit.”

MRS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESEMONGER. 5317

There, Mr. Leslie ! ” ejaculated in her turn Mrs. Leslie,
returning her husband^s nod most triumphantly. A brother’s
interest ! — do you hear that.^”

** Since,” pursued Sir Arthur, I have to crave your inter-
cession with his dear and admirable sister, whom I have loved,
without knowing it, ever since we were children in the nursery,
and who now, although confessing that she does not hate me,
talks of want of fortune — as if 1 had not enough; and of
want of beauty and want of accomplishments — as if her
matchless elegance and unrivalled conversation were not worth
all the doll-like prettiness or tinsel acquirements under the
sun. Pray intercede for me, dear cousin ! — dear sir !” con-
tinued the ardent lover ; whilst Mr. Leslie, without taking
the slightest notice of the appeal, nodded most provokingly to
the crest-fallen match -maker, and begged to know how she
liked Sir Arthur’s opinion of her system of education ?

What answer the lady made, this deponent saith not —
indeed, I believe she was too angry to speak — but the result
was all that could be desired by the young people : the journey
was again postponed ; the double marriage celebrated at Hal-
lenden; and Miss Caroline, as bridesmaid, accompanied the
fair brides to canny Northumberland,” to take her chance
for a husband, unaided and unimpeded by her manoeuvring
mamma.

MRS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESEMONGER.

Perhaps the finest character in all Moliere is that of Madame
Pernelle, the scolding grandmother in the ‘^Tartufe;” at
least, that scene (the opening scene of that glorious play), in
which, tottering in at a pace which her descendants have
difficulty in keeping up with, she puts to flight her grandson,
and her daughter-in-law’s brother, (think of making men fly
the field !) and puts to silence her daughter-in-law, her grand-
daughter, and even the pert soubrette, (think of making women
hold their tongues I) and Anally boxes her own waiting-maid’s
ears for yawning and looking tired, — that scene of matchless
scolding has always seemed to me unrivalled in the conuc
drama. The English version of it in The Hypocrite” is

318

MBS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESEMONGER.

fiir less amusing, the old Lady Lambert being represented in
that piece rather as a sour devotee, whose fiery zeal, and her
submission to Cantwell, and even to Mawworm, form the chief
cause, the mainspring — as it were, of her lectures ; whilst
Madame Pernelle, although doubtless the effect of her haran-
gues is heightened and deepened by her perfect conviction that
she is right and that all the rest are wrong, has yet a natural
gift of shrewishness — is, so to say, a scold born, and would
have rated her daughter-in-law and all her descendants, and
bestowed her cuffs upon her domestics with equal good-will,
though she had never aspired to the reputation of piety, or
edified by the example of M. Tartufe. The gift was in her.
Not only has Moliere beaten, as was to be expected, his own
English imitator, but he has achieved the far higher honour of
vanquishing, in this single instance, his two great forerunners.
Masters Shakspeare and Fletcher. For, although the royal
dame of Anjou had a considerable talent for vituperation, and
Petruchio’s two wives, Katharine and Maria*, were scolds of
promise ; none of the three, in iny mind, could be said to
approach Madame Pernelle, — not to mention the superior
mode of giving tongue (if 1 may affront the beautiful race of
spaniels by applying in such a way a phrase appropriated to
their fine instinct), — to say nothing of the verbal superiority,
Flipote’s box on the ear remains unrivalled and unapproached.
Katherine breaking the lute over her master’s head is a joke
in comparison.

Now, notwithstanding the great Frenchman’s beating his
English rivals so much in the representation of a shrew, I am
by no means disposed to concede to our Continental neigh-
bours any supremacy in the real living model. I should be
as sorry that French women should go beyond us in that par-
ticular gift of the tongqp, which is a woman’s sole weapon, her
one peculiar talent, as that their soldiers should beat ours in
the more manly way of fighting with sword and with gun, or
their painters or poets overpass us in their respective arts. The

* ^akspeare*s Hne extravaganza, The Taming or the Shrew," gave' rise to an
equMljr pleasant continuation by Fletcher, entitled, "The Woman’s Prize ; or, The
Tam^r Tamed a play little known, except to the professed lovers of the old draiha,
in which Hetruchio, having lost his good wife Katharine, is betrayed into a second
marriage Cb a gentle, quiet, demure damsel, called Maria, who, after their nuptials,
chabgcs into^aa absolute fury, turns the tables upon him completely, and succeeds
in establishing the female dominion upon the firmest possible basis, being aided
thrbvghouk by a sort of chorus of married women from town and country.

MRS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESEMONGER. 219

art of scolding is no trifling accomplishment, and I claim for
my countrywomen a high degree of excellence in all the shades
and varieties thereunto belonging, from the peevish grumble
to the fiery retort — from the quip modest” to ^^the coun-
tercheck quarrelsome.” The gift is strictly national too ; for
although one particular district of London (which, indeed, has
given its name to the dialect) has been celebrated, and I believe
deservedly celebrated, for its breed of scolds ; yet I will
undertake to pick up in any part of England, at four-and-
twenty hours' notice, a shrew that shall vie with all Billings-
gate.

To go no farther for an instance than our own market-town,
I will match my worthy neighbour, Mrs. Tomkins, cheese-
monger, in Queen Street, against any female fish-vender in
Christendom. She, in her single person, simple as she stands
there behind her counter, shall outscold the whole parish of
Wapping.

Deborah Ford, such was Mrs. Tomkins's maiden appella
tion, was the only daughter of a thrifty and thriving yeoman
in the county of Wilts, who having, to her own infinite dis-
satisfaction and the unspeakable discomfort of her family,
remained a spinster for more years than she cared to tell, was
at length got rid of by a manoeuvring stepmother, who made
his marrying Miss Deborah the condition of her supplying
Mr. Simon Tomkins, cheesemonger, in Belford, with the
whole produce of her dairy, celebrated for a certain mock
Stilton, which his customers, who got it at about half the
price of the real, were wont to extol as incomparably superior
to the more genuine and more expensive commodity.

Simon hesitated — looked at Deborah's sour face ; for she
had by strong persuasion been induced to promise not to
scold — that is to say, not to speak, (for, in her case, the terms
were synonymous ;) — muttered something which might be
understood as a civil excuse, and went to the stable to get
ready his horse and chaise. In that short w’alk, however, the
prudent swain recollected that a rival cheesemonger had just
^t up over against him in the same street of the identical town
of Belford ; that the aforesaid rival was also a bachelor, and,
as Mrs. Ford had hinted, would doubtless not be so blind to
his* own interest as to neglect to take her mock Stilton, with so
small an incumbrance as a sour-looking wife, who was said to

3^0 sms. TOMKINS, THE CHEESEMONGER.

he the best manager in the county ; so that by the time the
crafty stepmother re-appeared with a parting glass of capital
currant wine, (a sort of English stirrup-cup, which she posi-
tively affirmed to be of Deborah’s making,) Simon had
changed, or as he expressed it, made up his mind to espouse
Miss Deborah, for the benefit of his trade and the good of his
customers.

Short as was the courtship, and great as were the pains
taken by Mrs. Ford (who performed impossibilities in the way
of conciliation) to bring the marriage to bear, it had yet nearly
gone off three several times, in consequence of Deborah’s
tongue, and poor Simon’s misgivings, on whose mind, espe-
cially on one occasion, the night before the wedding, it was
powerfully borne, that all the excellence of the currant wine,
and all the advantages of the mock Stilton, were but poor
compensations, not only for peace and happy life,*' and

awful rule and just supremacy," but for the being per-
mitted, in common parlance, to call his soul his own. Things,
however, had gone too far. The stepmother talked of honour
and character, and broken hearts; the father hinted at an
action for damages, and a certain nephew, Timothy, an attor-
ney-at-law ; whilst a younger brother, six feet two in height,
and broad in proportion, more than hinted at a good cudgel-
ling. So Simon married.

Long before the expiration of the honeymoon, he found all
his worst fears more than confirmed. His wife — ^‘his mis-
tress," as in the homely country phrase he too truly called her
— was the greatest tyrant that ever ruled over a household.
Compared with our tigress, Judith Jenkins, now Mrs. Jones,
was a Iamb. Poor Simon's shopman left him, his maid gave
warning, and his apprentice ran away ; so that he who could
not give warning, and was ashamed to run away, remained
the one solitary subject of this despotic queen, the luckless
man-of-all-work of that old and well-accustomed shop.
Bribery, under the form of high wages and unusual indul-
gences, did to a certain point remedy this particular evil ; so
thift they came at last only to change servants about once
fortnight on an average, and to lose their apprentices, some
by running, away and some by buying themselves oW, not
oftener than twice a year. Indeed, in one remarkable in-
stance, they had the good fortune to keep a cook, who hap-

MRS. TOMKINS^ THE CHEESEMONGER. 221

pened to be stone deaf, upwards of a twelvemonth ; and, in
another still more happy case, were provided with a perinanent
shopman, in the shape of an old pliant rheumatic Frenchman,
who had lived in some Italian warehouse in London until
fairly worn oflP his legs, in which plight his importers had dis-
carded him, to find his way back to la belle France as best he
could. Happening to fall in with him, on going to the Lon-
don warehouse with an order for Parmesan, receiving an ex-
cellent character of him from his employers, and being at his
wit's end for a man, Mr. Simon Tomkins, after giving him
due notice of his wife's failing, engaged the poor old foreigner,
and carried him home to Queen Street in triumph. A much-
enduring man was M. Leblanc ! Next after his master, he,
beyond all doubt, was the favourite object of Deborah's ob-
jurgation ; but, by the aid of snuff and philosophy, he bore
it bravely. Main je suie philosophe ! ** cried the poor old
Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders, and tapping his box
when the larum of his mistress's tongue ran through the
house — Toutefois je sals philosopher* exclaimed he with
a patient sigh ; and Deborah, who, without comprehending
the phrase, understood it to convey some insinuation against
herself, redoubled her clamour at the sound.

Tobacco in its various forms seems to have been the chief
consolation of her victims. If snuff and philosophy were
Leblanc's resources, a pipe and a tankard were his master's ;
and in both cases the objects to which they resorted for
comfort drew down fresh lectures from their liege lady. She
complained of the smell. And of a surety the smell is an
abomination ; only that, her father and her seven brothers, to
say nothing of half-a-dozen uncles and some score of cousins,
having been as atrociously given to smoking as if they had
been born and bred in Germany, so that eight or ten chimneys
had been constantly going in one room in the old farm-house
of Bevis-land, the fumes of tobacco might be said to be her
native air ; and Mr. Tomkins's stock.in-trade consuting, be^
sides the celebrated cheese which had so unluckily brAgbt him
acquainted with her, of soap, candles, salt-butter, bacon,
pickles, oils, and other unsavoury commodities, one would
really think that no one particular stench could greatly increase
the odours of that most unfragrant shop. She, however,
imputed all the steams that invaded her nostrils either to. her

MRS. TOMKINS, THK CI1BE8EMONOCR.

shopman's snuff or her husband’s smoking, and threatened ten
times a day to demolish the pipes and the boxes, which were
good for nothing, as she observed, but to keep the men-folk
idle and to poison every Christian thing about them ; *' an
affront which both parties endured with a patient silence,
which only served to exasperate her wrath.

Find It where he would, much need had poor Mr. Tomkins
of comfort. Before his marriage, he had been a spruce dap-
per little man, with blue eyes, a florid complexion, and hair of
the colour commonly called sandy, — alert in movement, fluent
in speech, and much addicted to laughing, whether at his own
jokes or the jokes of his neighbours ; he belonged to the
Bachelors' Club and the Odd Fellows, was a great man at the
cricket-ground, and a person of some consideration at the
vestry; in short, was the bean ideal of the young thriving
country tradesman of thirty years ago.

He had not been married half a year before such an altera-
tion took place as really would have seemed incredible. His
dearest friends did not know him. The whole man was
changed — shrunk, shrivelled, withered, dwindled into nothing.
The hen-pecked husband in the farce, carrying his wife's clogs
in one hand and her bandbox in the other, and living on the
tough drumsticks of turkeys, and the fat flaps of shoulders
of mutton," was but a type of him. The spirit of his youth
was departed. He gave up attending the coffee-house or the
cricket-ground, ceased to joke or to laugh at jokes ; and he
who had had at club and vestry a voice potential as double as
the mayor Sf' could hardly be brought to answer Yes or No to
a customer. The man was evidently in an atrophy. His
wife laid the blame to his smoking, and his friends laid it to his
wife, whilst poor Simon smoked on and said nothing. It was
a parallel case to Peter Jenkins's, and Stephen Lane might
have saved him ; but Stephen not being amongst his cronies,
(for Simon was a Tory,) and Simon making no complaint,
^at chu^ was lost. He lingered through the first twelve
months Rer their marriage, and early in the second he died,
leaving his widow in excellent circumstances, the possessor of
a flourishing business and the mother of a little boy, to whom
she (the will having of course been made under her super-
vision) was constituted sole guardian.

incredible as it may seem, considering the life she led him

tfB8. TOHKIBS, THE CHEBSEHONGER. g23

while alive, Deborah was really sorry for poor Simon — per-
haps from a touch of remorse, perhaps because she lost in him
the most constant and patient listener to her various orations

— perhaps from a mixture of both feelings ; at all events,
sorry she was ; and as grief in her showed itself in the very
novel form of gentleness, so that for four-and-twenty hours she
scolded nobody, the people about her began to be seriously
alarmed for her condition, and were about to call in the phy-
sician who had attended the defunct, to prescribe for the
astounding placability of the widow, when something done or
left undone, by the undertaker or his man, produced the effect
which medical writers are pleased to call ‘‘ an effort of nature ;
she began to scold, and scolded all through the preparations
for the funeral, and the funeral itself, and the succeeding cere-
monies of will-reading, legacy -paying, bill-settling, stock-
valuing, and so forth, with an energy and good-will and
unwearying perseverance that left nothing to be feared on the
score of her physical strength, John Wesley preaching four
sermons, and Kean playing Richard three times in one day,
might have envied her power of lungs. She could have
spoken Lord Brougham’s famous six hours' speech on the Law
Reform without exhaustion or hoarseness. But what do 1
talk of a six hours’ speech ? She could have spoken a whole
night's debate in her own single person, without let or pause,
or once dropping her voice, till the division, so prodigious was
her sostenuto, Matthews and Miss Kelly were nothing to
her. And the exercise agreed with her — she throve upon it.

So for full twenty years after the death of Mr. Tomkins did
she reign and scold in the dark, dingy, low -browed, well-
accustomed shop of which she was now the sole directress.
M. Pierre Leblanc continued to be her man of business ; and
as, besides his boasted philosophy, he added a little French
pliancy and flattery of which he did not boast, and a great
deal of dexterity in business and integrity, as well as clearness
in his accounts, they got on together quite as well^ could be
expected. The trade flourished ; for, to do DeboraU^pstice, she
was not only a good manager, in the lowest sense of the term

— which, commonly speaking, means only frugal, — but she
was, in the most liberal acceptation of the words, prudent,
sagacious, and honest in' her pecuniary dealings, buying the
very best commodities, and selling them at such a fair and

2Si4 MRS. TOMKINS, TAB CHEESEMONOEK.

89 ensur€d a continuation of the best custom
of the e8unty~ tltie more especially as her sharp forbidcUng
^U^lonance and laRk raw-boned figure were seldom seen in
the shop. J^eople said (but what will^not people say ?) that
pBO ioasdn for hef keeping away from such excellent scolding-
grcmnd was to be found in les doux yeux of M. Pierre Leblanc,
who, with^d/ wizened, broken-down cripple as he was, was
actually suspected of having made an offer to his mistress ; —
a story which I wholly disbelieve, not only because I do not
think that the poor philosopher, whose courage was rather of
a passive than an active nature, would ever have summoned
rewdution to make such a proposal ; but because he never, as
fair as d can discover, was observed in the neighbourhood with
a* scratched face. — a catastrophe which would as certainly
have followed the audacity in question, as. the night follows
the day. Moreover, it is bad philosophy to go hunting about
for a remote and improbable cause, when a sufficient and
likely one is close at hand ; and there was, in immediate
juxta-position with Mrs. Tomkins’s shop, reason enough to
keep her out of it to the end of time.

' 1 have said that this shop, although spacious and not in-,
commodious, was dark and low-browed, forming part of an old-
fashioned irregular tenement, in an old-fashioned irregular
street The next house, with a sort of very deep and square bay-
window, which was, by jutting out so as to overshadow it, in
smne sort the occasion of the gloom which, increased perhaps by
tha dingy nature of the commodities,^ did unquestionably exist
in this great depository of cheese and chandlery-ware, hap-
opened to be occupied by a dealer in whalebone in its various
Mses, stays, umbrellas, parasols, and so forth, — a fair, mild,
gentle (^akeress — a female Friend, with two or three fair
smiling daughters, the very models of all that was quiet and
peaoefd, who, without even speaking to the furious virago,
were a standing rebuke to that perturbed spirit.” The
j^eep baujdndow was their constant dwelling-place. There
they sibt^Aquilly working from morning to night, gliding in
and oitt with a soft stealing pace like a cat, sleek, dimpled,
and -dove^yed, with that indescribable nicety and purity of
diesi and person, and that blameless modesty of demeanour,
for the female Friend is so generally distinguislied.

^ fault could Mrs. Tomkins discover in her next neigh-

MBS. TOMKINS, TtfK CHEJ^BMONOl^il.

hour, — but if ever woman hated her next neighbour, sW
hated Rachel May.

The constant sight of^this object df hei^ detestefion Was, of
course, one of the evilfe of Mrs. Tomkins's prosp^rbidi life; —
but she had many others to fight with — : most of them, of
course, of her own seeking. What she wciii{d have done
without a grievance, it is difficult to g;uess ; hut ^she h^ so
great a genius for making one out of everything" and ewry
person- connected with her, that she was nevet at a loss in that
particular. Her stepmother she had always regarded as a
natural enemy; and at her father's death, little aS she,

' rally speaking, coveted money, she contrived to quarrel with
her whole family upon the division of his property, chiMy oh
the score of an old japanned chest of drawers not worth ten
shillings, which her brothers and sisters w^e too niuch of her
own temper to relinquish.

Then her son, on whom she doted w;th a peevbh,

grumbling, fretful, discontented fondness that always took

the turn of finding fault, was, as she used reproachfully to
tell him, just like his father. The poor child, do what he

would, couhl never please. her. Jf he were well, she scolded;

if he were sick, she scolded ; if he were silent, she scolded ;
if he talked, she scolded. She scolded if he laughed, and she
scolded if he cried.

Then the people about her were grievances, of course, from
Mr. Pierre Leblanc downward. She turned off her porter for
apprehending a swindler, and gave away her yard-dog for
barking away some thieves. There was no foreseeing what
would displease her. She caused a beggar to be taken up for
insulting her, because he, with his customary cant, blessed
her good-humoured face ; and she complained to the mayor
of the fine fellow Punch for the converse reason, because be
stopped before her windows and mimicked her at her own
door.

Then she met with a few calamities of which hAtempe^:
was more remotely the cause ; — such as being dismissed from,
the dissenting congregation that she frequented, for making
an over free use of the privilege which pious ladies sometin^s
assume of*' quarrelling with their acquaintance on spli^tual.
grounds, and venting all manner of angry miathema forUte

Q

S26 MRS. TOMKINSi THE CBEESEMO^OER•

love of God ; an affront that drove her to church, the very
next Sunday. Also, she got turned off by her political party
in the heat of a contested election, for insulting friends and
foes in the bitterness of her zeal, and thereby endangering the
return of her favourite candidate. A provincial poet whose
works shf had, abused, wrote a song in her dispraise ; and
three attorneys brought actions against her for defamation.

These cah^ities notwithstanding, Deborah's life might for
one-and -twenty years be accounted tolerably prosperous. At
the end of that time, two misfortunes befel her nearly at once,
— Pierre Leblanc died, and her son attained his majority.

Mother ! ** said the young man, as they were dining
together off a couple of ducks two days after the old shopman’s
funeral; Mother!” said John Tomkins, mustering up his
comage, “ I think I was one-and- twenty last Saturday.”

And what of that ? ** replied Deborah, putting on her
stormiest face; ^^I’m mistress here, and mistress I’ll continue:
your father, poor simpleton that he was, was not fool enough
to leave his house and business to an ignorant boy. The
stock and trade are mine, sir, and shall be mine, in spite of all
the undutiful sons in Christendom. One-and-twenty, for-
sooth ! What put that in your head, I wonder ? What do
you mean by talking of one-and- tiventy, sirrah ? ”

^‘Only, mother,” replied John meekly, ‘^that though father
left you the house and business, he left me three thousand
pounds, which, by your prudent management, are now seven
thousand; dnd uncle William Ford, he left me the new
Warren Farm; and so, mother, I was thinking, with your
good-will, to marry and settle.”

Marry ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins, too angry even to
scold, — marry!” and she laid down her knife and fork aa
if choking.

Yes, mother!” rqoiiied John, taking courage from his
mother’s unexpected quietness, Rachel May's pretty grand,
danghta^becca ; she is but half a Quaker, you know, for
her motKer was a Churchwoman : and so, with your good
leave/’ — and smack went all that remained of the ducks in
poor John’s face! an effort of nature that probably saved
IMxHih’s life, and enabled her to give vent to an oration to
wUch I have no power to do justice; but of which the non-
effect was so decided, that John and his pretty Quakeress were

TIIE YOUNG aTARKBT-WOMAN, 22?

married within a fortnight, and are now happily settled at the
new Warren House ; whilst Mrs, Tomkins, having hired a
good-humoured, good-looking, strapping Irishman of three-
and-twenty, as her new foreman, is said to have it in con-
templation, by way, as she says, of punishing her son, to
make him, the aforesaid Irish foreman, successor to Simon
Tomkins as well as to Pierre Lehlanc, and is actually reported
(though the fact seems incredible) to have become so amiable
under the influence of the tender passion, as to have passed
three days without scolding anybody in the house or out.
The little God of Love is, to be sure, a powerful deity, espe-
cially when he comes somewhat out of season ; but this
transition of character does seem to me too violent a change
even for a romance, much more for this true history ; and I
hold it no lack of charity to continue doubtful of Deborah’s
reformation till after the honeymoon.

THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN.

Bedford is so populous a place, and the country round so
thickly inhabited, that the Saturday’s market is almost as well
attended as an ordinary fair. So early as three or four o’clock
in the morning, the heavy ws^ons (one with a capital set of
beUs) begin to pass our house, and increase in number — to
say nothing of the admixture of other vehicles, from the
humble donkey-cart to the smart gig, and hosts of horsemen
and footpeople — until nine or ten, when there is some pause
in the affluence of market folk till about one, when the light-
ened wains, laden, not with corn, but with rosy-cheeked
country lasses, begin to show signs of travelling homeward, and
continue passing at no very distant intervals until ^wilight.
There is more truffle on our road in one single Saturday tlum on
all the other days of the week put together. And if we feel the
stirring movement of '^market-day” so strongly in the coun-
try, it may be imagbed how much it must enliven the town.

Saturday at noon is indeed the very time to see Belford,
which in general has the fault, not uncommon in provincial

Q 2

228

THB YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN.

towns; of wanting bustle. The old market-place, always pic->
turesque from its shape (an unequal triangle), its size, the
diversified outline and irregular architecture of the houses, and
the beautiful Gothic church by which it is terminated, is then
all alive with the busy hum of traffic, the agricultural wealth
and the agricultural population of the district. From the poor
fanner with his load of corn, up to the rich mealman and the
great proprietor, all the ‘Handed interest” is there, mixed
with jobbers and chapmen of every description, cattle-dealers,
millers, brewers, maltsters, justices going to the bench, con-
stables and overseers following to be sworn, carriers, carters,
errand-boys, tradesmen, shopmen, apprentices, gentlemen’s
servants, and gentlemen in their own persons, mixed with all
the riff-raff of the town, and all the sturdy beggars of the
country, and all the noisy urchins of both.

Noise, indeed, is the prime characteristic of the Belford
market-day — noise of every sort, from the heavy rumbling of
so many loaded w’aggons over the paved market-place, to the
crash of crockery-ware in the narrow passage of Princes’-street,
as the stall is knocked down by the impetus of a cart full of
turnips, or the squall of the passengers of the Southton cara-
van, upset by the irresistible momentum of the Hadley-mill
team.

'• But the noisiest, and perhaps the prettiest places, were the
piazza at the end of Saint Nicholas' church, appropriated by
long usage to the female venders of fruit and vegetables, where
obtain old women, as well known to the habituSs of the
market as the church- tower, were wont to Jlyte at each other,
knd at their customers, with the genius for vituperation for
which ladies of their profession have long been celebrated ;
ttnd a detached spot called the Butter-market, at the back of
the- Market-place proper, where the more respectable basket-
women, the daughters and wives of fanners, and the better
order of the female peasantry, used to bring eggs, butter, and
poultry ior sale on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

* A pretty and a diversified place was the Butter-market ; for
Besides the commodities, dead and alive, brought by the honest
eotthtrywomen, a few stalls were set out with straw hats, and
ca^ and ribbons, and other feminine gear, to tempt them in
letum ; and here and there an urchin of the more oareful sort
would bring hU basket of tame rabbits, or wood-pigeons, or

THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN. 2^

young ferrets^ or squeaking guinea-pigs, or a nest of downy
owls or gaping jackdaws, or cages of linnets and thrushes, to
tempt the townsfolk. Nay, in the season, some thoughtful
little maid of eight or ten would bring nosegays of early prim-
roses or sweet violets, or wall-dowers, or stocks, to add a few
pence to the family store.

A pleasant sight was the Butter-market, with its comely
country wives, its modest lasses and neat children, — pleasant
and cheerful, in spite of the din of so many women, buyers
and sellers, all talking together, and the noise of turkeys, gee8e>
ducks, chickens, and guinea-pigs ; but the pleasantest sight
there was a young damsel famous for eggs and poultry, and
modest beauty, known by the name of pretty Bessy,*' — but
not a regular attendant of the market, her goods being in such
request that she seldom had occasion to come so far, the
families round, ourselves amongst the rest, dealing constantly
with her.

We are persons of great regularity in our small affairs of
every class, from the petty dealings of housekeeping to the
larger commerce of acquaintanceship. The friends who have
once planted us by their fireside, and made us feel as if at
home there, can no more get rid of our occasional presence,
-than they could root out that other tenacious vegetable, the
Jerusalem artichoke ; even if they were to pull us up by the
stalk and toss us over the wall (an experiment by the way,
which, to do them justice, they have never tried), Ido verily
believe, that in the course of a few months we should spring
up again in the very same place : and our tradespeople, trifling
as is the advantage to be derived from our custom, may yet
reckon upon it with equal certainty. They are, as it happens,
civil, honest, and respectable, the first people in their line in
the good town of Belford ; but, were they otherwise, the circum-
stance would hardly affect our invincible constancy. The
world is divided between the two great empires of habit and
novelty ; the young following pretty generally in the train of
the new-fangled sovereign, whilst we of an elder generation
adhere with similar fidelity to the ancien regime, I, especially,
am the very bond-slave of habit — love old friends, old faces,
old books, old scenery, old flowers, old associations of every
sort and kind — nay, although a woman, and one not averse
to that degree of decoration which belongs to the suitable and

Q 3

230

THE YOUNG MARKET-ljTOMAN.

the becoming, 1 even love old fashions and old clothes ; and
can so little comprehend why we should tire of a thing because
we have had it long, that, a favourite pelisse having become
shabby* I this very day procured with some difficulty silk of
the exact colour and shade, and, having ordered it to be made
in direct conformity with the old pattern, shall have the satis*
faction next Sunday of donning a new dress, which my neigh-
bours, the shoemaker's wife and the baker's daughters, who
have in their heads an absolute inventory of iny apparel, will
infallibly mistake for the old one.

After this striking instance, the courteous reader will have'no
difficulty in comprehending that the same ^^auld lang syne”
feeling, which leads me to think no violets so fragrant as those
which grow on a certain sunny bank in Kibes Lane, and no
cherries so sweet as those from the great may duke, on the south
wall of our old garden, should also induce me to prefer before
all oranges those which come from Mrs. Hollis’s shop, at the
comer of the churchyard — a shop which we have frequented
ever since I knew what an orange was ; and, for the same
reason, to rank before all the biscuits which ever were invented,
a certain most seducing, thin, and crisp composition, as light
as foam and as tasteless as spring water, the handiwork of
Mrs, Purdy, of the market-place, in the good town of Bel-
ford ; as well as to place above all other poultry that which
cackles in the baskets of “ pretty Bessy.” The oranges and
biscuits are good in themselves, and so are the ducks and
chickens ; but some of their superiority is undoubtedly to be
ascribed to the partiality generated by habit.

Another of the persons with whom we had in our small
way dealt longest, and whom we liked best, was old Matthew,
the mat seller. As surely as February came, would Matthew
present his bent person and withered though still ruddy face
at our door, with the three rush mats which he knew that our
cottage required ; and as surely did he receive the sum of fif-
teen shillings in return for his commodity, notwithstanding an
occasional remonstrance from some fii])pant housemaid or
domineering cook, who would endeavour to send him off with
an assurance that his price was double that usually given, and
that no mat ever made with rushes was or could 1^ worth five
shillings. His honour always deals with roe,” was Mat*
thew i mild response, and an appeal to tlie parlour never failed

THE YOUNG MABKET-WOMAN. SSt

to settle matters to his entire satisfaction. In point of fact^
Matthew'jB mats were honestly B'orth the money ; and we en-
joyed in this case the triple satisfaction of making a fair bar-
gain, dealing with an old acquaintance, and relieving, in the
best way — fliat of employment — the wants of age and of
poverty : for, although Matthew's apparel was accurately clean
and tidy, and his thin, wrinkled cheek as hale and ruddy as a
summer a{)ple, yet the countless patches on his various garr
ments, and the spare, trembling figure, bent almost double and
crippled with rheumatism, told a too legible story of infirmity
and penury. Except on his annual visit with his merchandise,
we never saw the good old mat maker ; nor did I even know
where he resided, until the want of an additional mat for my
greenhouse, towards the end of last April, induced me to make
inquiry concerning his habitation.

1 had no difficulty in obtaining a direction to his dwelling
and found that, for a poor old mat maker, Matthew was a
person of more consideration and note in our little world than
I could have expected, being, in a word, one of the honestest,
soberest, and most industrious men in the neighbourhood.

He lived, I found, in Barkham Dingle, a deep woodland
dell, communicating with a large tract of unenclosed moors
and commons in the next parish, convenient doubtless to Mat-
thew, as affording the rushes of which his mats were con-
structed, as well as heath for brooms, of which he was said to
have lately established a manufacture, and which were almost
equally celebrated for durability and excellence with the arti-
cles that he had made for so many years. In Barkham Dingle
lived old Matthew, with a grand-daughter, who was, I found,
also renowned for industry and good-humour : and, one fine
afternoon towards the end of April, I set forth in my little
pony phaeton, driven by that model of all youthful serving-
men, our boy John, to make my purchase.

Our road lay through a labyrinth of cross-country
lanes, intermingled with tiny patches of village greens, where
every here and there a score or two of sheep, the small
flock of some petty farmer, were nestled with their young
lambs among the golden gorse and the feathery broom, and
which started up, bleating, at the sound of our wheels and the
sight of Dash (far too well-bred a dog to dream of molesting
them), as if our peaceful procession had really been something
Q 4

Tll£ YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN.

to be frightened at. Rooka were wheeling over our heads
wQod^pigeons flying across the fields ; the shrill cry of the
plover mixed with the sweet song of the nightingale and the
monotonous call of the cuckoo ; whilst every hedge echoed
with the thousand notes of the blackbird, the linnet, the thrush,
and all the finches of the grove/' Geese and ducks, with
their train of callow younglings, were dabbling in every pool ;
little bands of straggling children were wandering through the
lanes ; everything, in short, gave token of the loveliest of the
seasons, the fresh and joyous spring. Vegetation, was, how-
ever, unusually backward. The blossom of the sloe, called
by the country people the blackthorn winter," still lingered
in the hedges, mingling its snowy garlands with the deep, rich
brown of the budding oak and the tender green of the elm ;
the primroses of March still mingled with the cowslips, pan-
sies, orchises, and wild hyacinths of April ; and the flower of
the turnip was only just beginning to diffuse its honeyed
odours (equal in fragrance to the balmy tassels of the lime) in
the most sheltered nooks or the sunniest exposures. The
blessed sun" himself seemed rather bright than warm : the
season was, in short, full three weeks back warder than it
should have been according to the almanack. Still it was
spring, beautiful spring ! and, as we drew near to the old
beech-wood called Barkham Dingle, we felt in its perfection
all the charm of the scene and the hour.

Although the country immediately round was unenclosed, as
had been fully proved by the last half-mile of undulating
common, interspersed by old shaggy trees and patches (islets,
as it were) of tangled underwood, as well as by a few rough
ponies and small cows belonging to the country people ; yet
the lanes leading to it had been intersected by frequent gates,
from the last of which a pretty, little, rosy, smiling girl, to
whom 1 had tossed a penny for opening it, had sprung across
the common, like a fawn, to be ready with her services at that
leading into the Dingle, down which a rude cart track, seldom
tised unless for the conveyance of fagots or brushwood, led by
a picturesque but by no means easy descent.

liCaving chaise, and steed, and driver, to await our return
at the gate. Dash and 1 pursued our way by a winding yet
still precipitous path to the bottom of the dell. Nothing could
be more beautiful than the scene. On every side, steep.

THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN.

2S5

shelving bAiiks^ clothed with magnificent oaka and beeches, the
growth of centuries, descended gradually, like some vast am-
phitheatre, to a clear, deep piece of water, lying like a mirror
in the midst of the dark woods, and letting light and sunshine
into the picture. The leaves of the beech were just bursting
into a tender green from their shining sheaths, and the oaks
bore still the rich brown, which of their unnumbered tints is
perhaps the loveliest ; but every here and there a scattered
horse-chestnut, or plane, or sycamore, had assumed its summer
verdure ; the weeping birch, the lady of the woods," was
breaking from the bud, the hplly glittering in its unvaried
glossiness, the hawthorn and the briar rose in full leaf, and the
ivy and woodbine twisting their bright wreaths over the rug-
ged trunks of the gigantic forest- trees ; so that green formed
even now the prevailing colour of the wood. The ground,
indeed, was enamelled with flowers like a parterre. Primroses,
cowslips, pansies, orchises, ground-ivy, and wild hyacinths,
were blended in gorgeous profusion with the bright wood-
vetch, the light wood-anemone, and the delicate wood -sorrel,
which sprang from the mossy roots of the beeches, unrivalled
in grace and beauty, more elegant even than the lily of the
valley that grew by its side. Nothing could exceed the
delightfulness of that winding wood-walk.

I soon came in sight of the place of my destination, a low-
browed, thatched cottage, perched like a wild-duck* s nest at
the very edge of the pool, and surrounded by a little garden
redeemed from the forest — a small clearing^ where cultivated
flowers, and beds of berry -bushes, and pear and cherry trees,
in full blossom, contrasted strangely yet pleasantly with the
wild scenery around.

The cottage was very small, yet it had the air of snugness
and comfort which one loves to associate with the dwellings of
the industrious peasantry. A goodly fagot-pile, a donkey-
shed, and a pigsty, evidently inhabited, confirmed this impres-
sion ; and geese and ducks swimming in the water, and
chickens straying about the door, added to the cheerfulness of
the picture.

As I approached, I recognised an old acquaintance in a
young girl, who, with a straw basket in her hand, was engaged
in feeding the cocks and hens — no less a person than pretty
Bessy the young market-woman, of whom I have^before

2S4

THE YOUNG MAHKET-WOMAN.

spoken^ celebrated for rearing the earliest ducks and the fattest
and whitest chickens ever seen in these parts. Any Wednes-
day or Saturday morning, during the spring or summer, might
Bessy he seen on the road to Belford, tripping along by the
aide of her little cart, hardly larger than a wheelbarrow, drawn
by a sedate and venerable donkey, and laden with coops full
of cackling or babbling inmates, together with baskets of
fresh eggs — for Bessy’s commodities were as much prized at
the breakfast as at the dinner table. She meant, as I have
said, to keep the market ; but, somehow or other, she seldom
reached it ; the quality of her merchandise being held in such
estimation by the families around, that her coops and baskets
were generally emptied before they gained their place of desti-
nation.

Perhaps the popularity of the vender had something to do
with the rapid sale of her poultry- ware. Never did any one
more completely realise the beau ideal of a young, happy,
innocent, country girl, than Matthew’s grand-daughter.
Fresh and fair, her rosy cheeks mantling with blushes, and
her cherry lips breaking into smiles, she was the very milk-
maid of Isaac Walton ; and there was an old-fashioned neat-
ness and simplicity, a complete absence of all finery, in her
attire, together with a modest sweetness in her round young
voice, a rustic grace in her little curtsey, and, above all, a total
unconsciousness of her charms, which not only heightened the
effect, but deepened and strengthened the impression. No one
that ever had seen them could forget Bessy’s innocent smiles.

At present, however, the poor girl was evidently in no
smiling mood ; and, as I was thridding with care and labour
the labyrinths of an oak newly felled and partly barked, which
lay across the path, to the great improvement of its pic-
turesquenesB (there are few objects that so much enhance the
' beauty of woodland scenery) and the equal augmentation of its
difficulty, I eould not help observing how agitated and pre-
occupied the little damsel seemed. Her cheek had lost its
colour, her step was faltering, and the trembling hand with
which she was distributing the com from her basket could
hardly perform its task. Her head was turned anxiously
towards the door, as if something important were going for-
ward within the house ; and it was not until 1 was actually by
her sik, and called her by name, that she perceived me.

THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN.

235

The afternoon^ although bright and pleasant for the season^
was one of those in which the sun sometimes amuses himself
by playing at bopeep. The sky had become overcast shortly
after I entered the Dingle, and, by the time I had surmounted
the last tall jutting bare bough of the oak, some of the branches
of which 1 was fain to scramble over and some to creep
through, and had fairly reached the cottage door, a sudden
shower was whistling through the trees with such violence
as to render both Dash and myself very glad to accept Bessy’s
embarrassed invitation, and get under shelter from the pelting
of the storm.

My entrance occasioned an immediate and somewhat awk-
ward pause in a discussion that had been carried on, apparently
with considerable warmth, between my good old host, Matthew,
who, with a half-finished mat in his hand, was sitting in alow
wicker chair on one side of the hearth, and a visiter, also of
my acquaintance, who was standing against the window ; and,
with the natural feeling of repugnance to such an intrusion, I
had hardly taken the seat offered me by Bessy and given my
commission to her grandfather, before I proposed to go away,
saying that I saw they were busy, that the rain was nothing,
that I had a carriage waiting, that I particularly wished to get
home, and so forth — all the civil falsehoods, in short, with
which, finding oneself madame de trop^ one attempts to escape
from an uncomfortable situation.

My excuses were, however, altogether useless. Bessy would
not hear of my departure ; Farmer White, my fellow-visiter,
assured me that the rain was coming down harder than ever ;
and the old matmaker declared that, so far from my being in
the way, all the world was welcome to hear what he had to
say, and he had just been wishing for some discreet body to
judge of the farmer’s behaviour. And, the farmer professing
himself willing that 1 should be made acquainted with the
matter, and perfectly ready to abide by my opinion— -provided
it coincided with his own — I resumed my seat opposite to
Matthew, whilst poor. Bessy, blushing and ashamed, placed
herself on a low stool in a corner of the little room, and began
making friends with Dash.

The long and short of the matter is, ma’am,” quoth old
Matthew, that, Jem White — 1 dare say you know Jem ;
he’s a good lad and a ’dustrious — and my Bessy theite — and

ese

THJB YOI7NO MABKET-WOMAN.

she's a good girl and a 'dustrious too, thof I say it that should
not say it — have been keeping company, like, for these two
years past ; and now, just as I thought they were going
to marry and settle in the world, down comes his father, the
farmer there, and wants him to marry another wench and be
false-hearted to my girL” .

I never knew that he courted her, ma’am, till last night,”
interrupted the farmer.

“ And who does be want Jem to marry ? ” pursued the old
man, wanning as he went on. Who but Farmer Brookes’s
fine daughter *Gusta — Miss *Gusta as they call her ~ who’s
just come back from Belford boarding-school, and goes about
the country in her silks and her satins, with her veils and her
fine worked bags, — who but she ! as if she was a lady born,
like madam there ! Now, my Bessy ”

I have not a word to say against Bessy,*' again interrupted
the farmer ; she’s a good girl, and a pretty girl, and an indus-
trious girl. I have not a word to say against Bessy. But the
fact is, that I have had an offer of the Holm Farm for Jem,
and therefore **

^^And a fine farmer’s wife ’Gusta Brookes will make I”
quoth the inatraaker, interrupting Master White in his turn.
" A pretty farmer’s wife ! She that can do nothing on earth
but jabber French, and, read story-books, and thump on the
music ! Now, there’s ray girl can milk, and churn, and bake,
and brew, and cook, and wash, and make, and mend, and rear
poultry — there are not such ducks and chickens as Bessy’s
for ten miles round. Ask madam — she always deals with
Bessy, and so do all the gentlefolks between here and Belford.*’

I am not saying a word against Bessy,** replied Farmer
White ; she’s a good girl, and a pretty girl, as I said before ;
and I am very sorry for the whole affair. But the Holm
Farm is a largish concern, and will take a good sum of money
to stock it — more money than I can command ; and Augusta
Brookes, besides what her father can do for her at his death,
him four hundred pounds of her own jeft her by her grand-
mother, which, with what 1 can spare, will be about enough
for the purpose ; and that made me think of the match,
though the matter is still quite unsettled. You know, Master
Matthew, one can’t expect that Bessy, good girl as she is,
should Mhve any money — — **

THE YOUNG MAHKET-WOMAN.

that’s it!** exclaimed the old man of the mats.

You don’t object to the wench then, nor to her old grand*
father, if *twas not for the money ?’*

Not in the least,” replied the farmer ; she’s a good girl,
and a pretty girl. I like her full as well as Augusta Brookes,
and I am afraid that Jem likes her much better. And, as for
yourself. Master Matthew, why I *ve known you these fifty
years, and never heard man, woman, or child speak a misword
of you in my life, 1 respect you, man ! And I am heartily
sorry to vex you, and that good little girl yonder. Don’t cry
so, Bessy; pray don’t cry!’* And the good-natured farmer
well-nigh cried for company.

No, don’t cry, Bessy, because there’s no need,** rejoined
her grandfather. 1 thought mayhap it was out of pride that
Farmer White would not suffer Jem to marry my little girl.
But, since it’s only the money,” continued the old man,
fumbling amidst a vast variety of well-patched garments,
until from the pocket of some under-jacket he produced a
greasy brown leather book — since *tis only Miss *Gusta*s
money that’s wanted to stock the Holm, why that’s but reason-
able ; and we*ll see whether your four hundred won’t go as
far as hers. Look at them dirty bits of paper, farmer — they’re
of the right sort, an’t they ? ** cried Mattthew, with a chuckle.

I called ’em in, because I thought they’d be wanted for her
portion, like ; and, when the old matmaker dies, there’ll be a
hundred or two more into the bargain. Take the money, man,
can’t ye ? and don’t look so ’stounded. It’s honestly come by,
I promise you, — all ’dustry and ’conomy, like. Her father,
he was ’dustrious, and he left her a bit ; and her mother, she
was ’dustrious too, and she left her a bit ; and I, thof I should
hot say it, have been ’dustrious all my life ; and she, poor
thing, is more 'dustrious than any of us. Ay, that’s right*
Give her a hearty kiss, man ; and call in Jem — I'll warrant
he’s not far off — and we’ll fix the wedding day over a jug of
home-brewed. And madam there,” pursued the happy old
man, as with most sincere congratulations and good wishes 1
rose to depart, madam there, who looks so pleased and speaks
so kindly, may be sure of her mat. I’m a ’dustrious man,
thof I say it that should not say it ; and Bessy’s a ’dustriouk
girl ; and, in my mind, there’s nothing beats ’dustry in high
or in low.”

238

HESTER.

And^ with this axiom from the old matmaker, Dash and I
took our leave of four as happy people — for by this time Jem
had joined the party — as could well be found under the sun.

HESTER.

Amongst the most prominent of the Belfordians who figured
at the Wednesday night's club at the King's Arms, was a
certain portly personage, rather broker than he was long,
who was known generally through the town by the familiar
appellation of Nat Kinlay. By calling, Nat

“ Was, — could he help it ?— a special attorney ,

by habit and inclination, a thorough good fellow — played
the best rubber, sang the best song, told the best story,
made the best punch — and drank the most of it when
made, of any man in Belford. Besides these accomplish*
ments, he was eminently agreeable to men of all ranks ; had
a pleasant word for every^dy ; was friendly with the rich,
generous to the poor, never out of spirits, never out of
humour, and, in spite of the quips and cranks in which he
delighted, never too clever for his company : the most
popular person in the place was, beyond all doubt, Nat
Kinlay.

In spite, however, of his universal popularity, and of a
general tendency to overrate his colloquial talents, no attorney
in the town had so little employment. His merits made
against him in his profession almost as strongly as his faults :
frank, liberal, open-hearted, and indulgent, as well as thought-
lefBS, careless, daring, and idle ; a despiser of worldly wisdom,
a hater of oppression, and a reconciler of strife — he was about
the last person to whom the crafty, the overbearing, or the
litigious, would resort for aid or counsel. The prudent were
repelled by his heedlessness and procrastination, and the timid
alarmed at his levity ; so that the circumstance which he told
as a good joke at the club, of a spider having spun a web over
the lock of his office-door (as over the poor-box in Hogarth’s
famous picture), was no uncommon occurrence at his resi*

H£STBR»

239

dence. Except by a few of the poorest and wildest of his
boon companions^ — penniless clients^ who lived at his table
all the while their suits were pending, and took care to dis-
appear just before their cause was lost, — the mysterious-
looking brass knob, with “ Office-Bell '' underneath it, at
Mr. Kinlay's excellent house in Queen Stleet, remained unrung
from term to term.

Startling as such a circumstance would have seemed to most
professional men, it was long before this total absence of pro-
fitable employment made the slightest impression on Nat
Kinky. The son of an affluent tradesman in a distant
county, he had been articled to a solicitor, rather as a step in
station, an advance towards gentility, than with any view to
the money-making facilities of that lucrative calling. His
father, judging from his own frugal habits, thought that Nat,
the only child amongst a large family of wealthy brothers,
would have money enough, without making himself a slave to
the law ; and when the early death of his parents put him in
possession of thirty thousand pounds lawful money of Great
Britain, besides the great draper's shop in the little town of
Cranley where that money had been accumulated, — to say
nothing of the stock and good-will, and divers messuages and
tenements, gardens and crofts, in and about the aforesaid
town — Nat was most decidedly of the same opinion.

But, extravagant in every sense of the word, luxurious in
his habits, prodigal in his generosity, expensive in his tastes,
easy and uncalculating as a child, the thirty thousand pounds,
between building and driving, and card-playing and good-fel-
lowship — (for sporting he was too unwieldy and too idle, or
that would undoubtedly have been added to the catalogue of
the spendthrift's sins,) the thirty thousand pounds melted
away like snow in the sunshine ; the produce of the shop,
gardens, crofts, messuages, and tenements — even the humble
dwelling in which his father had been bom, and his grand-
father had laid the foundation of the •family prosperity in the
humble vocation of a tailor, — disappeared with equal ra*
pidity ; and Nat Kinlay was on the very verge of ruin, when
the death of a rich uncle relieved him from his difficulties, and
enabled him to recommence his career of dissipation.

In the course of a few years his funds were again nearly*
exhausted, and again he was relieved by the bequest of a

240

HBSTBR.

doting aunt, whom two of her brothers, indignant at the con-
duct of the hope of the house, had made their heiress ; and the
only lesson that her dutiful nephew drew from this second
and near approach of poverty, was a vague confidence in his
own good fortune, and that callousness to a particular danger
which is the result of repeated escape from the same sort of
peril. Good advice, which, of all valuable commodities, is the
one most frequently wasted, was particularly thrown away in
his case ; he trusted in his lucky star — Napoleon himself not
more implicitly — and replied to his friendly advisers only by
a knowing wink, a good-humoured nod, and a scrap of some
gay Anacreontic :

“ Pleased, let us trifle life away,

And think of care when we grow old,”

might have been his motto.

This faith in his peculiar good fortune was not diminished
in his own eyes^ or in those of his flatterers, when, just as
Aunt Dorothy's tens of thousands were going where so many
tens of thousands had gone before, Nat had the happiness to
secure the affections of a very amiable woman of considerable
fortune, and far greater expectations, since she was the pre-
sumptive heiress of her mother's brother, with whom she had
resided during the greater part of her life, and who was a
man of ancient family and large landed property in the neigh-
boiirho^.

^ it is true, opposed the match ^as violently as a man well
, oopld do. His partialities and his prejudices were equally
against such a connexion. His aff^ctiDn for his dicce made
him dread the misery which nmst follow a union whli a con-
flimed spendthrift ; and his own personal" habits rendered
hisi exce^kgly avewe to parting witKiO^e^wlio had been fur
Setinany years his principal companion, and fi^qd. That a
woman educated by him in a stately redrement* immured
ailddst/lfche splendid soli^de of Cranley Park in the jhirsuits
dff Un snd of literature^ahould ** abase her eyes” on a low*
and unlettered prodigal many years older than bersejf,
Hdliiout even the attraction of personal graces ; , that Elizabeths
C|pdle%]^ the steadiest of the steady, the gravest of the
grave, demure and pensive as a nun, ahould be in love with
Nil f&inla]r9 — seemed to her uncle not merely monstrous,
but impioisibile.

BESTElt.

Sil

Such, however, was the case. And, perhaps many of the
striking discrepancies that existed between them in character
and situation tended to foster their mutual affection rather
than to check its growth. To Nat, little accustomed to the
best female society, the gentle reserve and quiet elegance of
Elizabeth, accidentally thrown in his way at the house of a
neighbouring gentleman, proved infinitely more captivating
than the mere girlish prettiness, or the showy dashing vulgar
style of beauty, with which he was familiar; whilst she — ..

Oh ! have we not all seen some sage and sedate damsel of six-
and-twenty — staid, demure, and coy, as the prude of Pope’s
and Cibber’s days — carried oft* her feet by the mere charm of
a buoyant, merry, light-hearted rattle, thoughtless, generous,
and good-natured ? Alas ! the tale is common. And the want
of good looks in the hero of the present story (though his
head was fine,^ and his figure at four or five-and-thirty was
by no means so unsightly as it afterwards became,) was amply
compensated by manners so agreeable, and a kindness so real,
that personal beauty seemed as nothing in the comparison.
There was a spice of romance in the affair too, — a horse that
had run away, or had been like to run aVay, and had been
stopped by the courage and address of the gentleman ; so poor
Elizabeth said, and thought that he had saved her life. Could
she do less than devote that life to his happiness ? And when
he vowed that, with her for his companion and guide, he
should never go astray again, could she do less than believe
him ?

Accordingly^ the lady being of age, her parents dead, and
her own fortune al^olutely in her power, they were married,
with no other drawback to her happiness than the total and
solemn renunciation of the kind uncle who had be^ to her as
a parent. , Nat indeed, with his usual sanguine spirit, made
sure of his relenting ; but Elizabeth, better acquainted with
the determined and somewhat stubborn* temper which they
had to encounter, felt a sad foreboding that thfe separittion
was final. She soon, however, forgot this evil in the bustle
and excitement of the wedding excursion, and in the total
alteration of scene ^nd of habits which ensued upon ftieir set-
tling down into a hiarried life.

One of fhe few stipulations which his fair bride' had made
was, that Nat should change his residence and resume his

B

24f2 HESTER.

profession. Accordingly, he bought the house and business
of old John Grove, one of the most thriving practitioners that
ever laid down the law in Belford, and soon became an emi-
nent and popular denizen of the good town, where he passed
his time much to his satisfaction, in fhrnishing and altering
his already excellent house, throwing out bow-windows, stick-
ing up verandas, adding to the coach-houses and stables, erect-
ing a conservatory, and building a garden-wall. He took a
pasture-farm about half a-mile off, stocked it with cattle, built
a fancy dairy, and bought a flock.

These were his graver extravagances, his business way of
spending money. Society, or rather perhaps company in all
varieties and degrees, formed his gayer mode of outlay.
Parties at home and parties abroad, club-dinners and tavern-
suppers, — meetings of all sorts and degrees, so that they
ended in cards and jollity, from the patrician reunions of the
hunt^ to which his good songs, and good stories, and good
humour gained him admittance, down to the pigeon -shooting
matches at the Rose and Crown, of which he was the idol, —
wine and billiards, whist and punch, — divided his days and
nights amongst them ; and poor Elizabeth soon found how
truly her uncle had prophesied when he had told her, that to
marry Nat Kinlay was to give herself to present care and
future penury. She did not cease to love him ; perhaps she
would have suffered less if she had. Selfish, utterly and
basely selfish, as he was in pursuing his own ignoble pleasures
at the expense of his wife’s happiness, there was still that
about him which it was impossible to dislike — a sweet and
merry temper, a constant kindness of look and of word, and
a never-fading attention to procure everything which he even
fancied could give her pleasure ; so that Elizabeth, who, con-
scientiously refraining from every sort of personal expense,
took care never to express the desires which he would be so
sure to have gratified, often wondered how he could have
divined her wishes and her tastes. No woman could dislike
such a husband.

They had no child ; but after they had been two or three
years married, a beautiful little girl, about four years old, fair
as alabaster, with shining ringlets of the texture and colour of
undyed silk, made her appearance in Queen-street. They
called her Hester; and Mrs. Kinlay said to those of her ac-

HESTER.

qiiaintance whom she thought entitled to an explanation, that
the child was an orphan whom Mr. Kinlay had permitted her
to adopt. It was observed that, once when she made this
declaration before him, the tears stood in his eyes, and he
caught up the little girl in seeming play, and buried his face
in her silky curls to conceal his emotion. One or two of his
old Cranley friends remembered, too, a vague story cpnceming
a pretty country girl in that neighbourhood. She had died —
and some had said that she had died in childbed, about four
years before ; and her name had been Hetty. Be that as it
might, the little Hester was firmly established in the house,
the darling of the gay and jovial master, and perhaps even
more decidedly the comfort of his mild and pensive wife.

Time wore on ; Hester was seven, eight, nine years old,
and this, the fourth fortune that he had spent, began to wax
low. Elizabeth 8 prudence had somewhat retarded the evil
day, but poverty was fast approaching ; and, with all his
confidence in his own good fortune, and in her uncle’s relent-r
ing, even Nat began to be conscious of his situation. Of the
forgiveness of her rich relation, indeed, she well knew that
there was no hope. Bad news seldom fails to reach those
most interested ; and she had heard from authority which she
could not doubt, that the adoption of Hester had annihilated
all chance of pardon. Severely strict in his own morals, the
bringing home that motherless innocent seemed in his eyes a
dereliction of feminine dignity, of wifely delicacy, — an en-
couragement of libertinism and vice, which nothing could
induce him to tolerate. He was inexorable ; and Elizabeth^
determined not to abandon the helpless child, loved her the
better for the injustice of which she was the object.

In herself, Hester was singularly interesting. Surrounded
by comforts and luxuries, and the object of constant and
affectionate attention from both Mr. and Mrs. Kinlay, there
was about her a touch of thoughtfulness and of melancholy, a
mild and gentle pensiveness, not a little striking in so young
a girl. Nat, when at home, spent more than half his time in
playing with and caressing her; but his jokes, usually so ex*'
hilarating, failed to enliven Hester : she smiled at them indeed^
or rather she smiled at him with fond and innocent gratitude ;
but no one ever remembered to have heard her laugh ; and to
read, or rather devour, in the room which she was permitted

B 2

244

HESTER.

to call hers, whatever hooks she could come by, or to wander
in the extensive and highly-cultivated garden with a beautiful
Italian greyhound belonging to Mrs. Kinlay, or to ramble with
the same graceful companion through the picturesque fields of
the Dairy Farm, formed the lonely child's dearest amusements.
Whether this unusual sadness proceeded from her being so
entirely without companions of her own age, or was caught
unconsciously from Mrs. Kinlay 's evident depression, and
from an intuitive perception, belonging to children of quick
feeling, that beneath an outer show of gaiety all was not going
well — or whether it were a mere accident of temperament,
none could ascertain. Perhaps each of these causes might
combine to form a manner most unusual at her age ; a manner
so tender, so gentle, so diffident, so full of pleading sweetness,
that it added incalculably to the effect of hq|r soft and delicate
beauty. Her look seemed to implore at once for love and for
pity ; and hard must have been the heart that could resist
such an appeal.

Every day increased Hester’s sadness and Mrs. Kinlay’s
depression ; but the reckless gaiety of the master of the house
suffered no diminution. True it was that his gaiety had
changed its character. The buoyancy and light-heartedness
had vanished ; even , the confidence in his inalienable good for-
tune was sensibly lessened — it was not, however, gone. No
longer expecting a pardon from his wife’s offended kinsman,
and not yet hardened enough to wish, or at least to confess to
himself in the face of his own conscience that he wished for
his death, he nevertheless allowed himself (so do we cheat our
own souls) to think that, if he should die, either without a
will, or with a will drawn up in a relenting mood, all would
again go right, and he be once more prosperous and happy ;
and, this train of ideas once admitted, he soon began to regard
as a certainty the speedy death of a temperate and hale man
of sixty, and the eventual softening of one of the most stem
*and stubborn hearts that ever beat in a human bosom. Hb
own relations had forgiven him : — why should not his wife’s ?
They had died just tf the money was urgently wanted : —
wi|||r should not he ? "

was not, however, so thoroughly comfpitable in this
but that he followed the usual ways of a man going down
in world, spending more prodigally than ever to conceal

HB8TER*

245

the approach of poverty, and speculating deeply and madly in
hopes of retrieving his broken fortunes. He played higher at
cards and billiards, bought brood>mares and merino flocks,
took shares in canals and joint-stock companies ; and having in
his prosperous daiys had the ill fortune to pick up at a country
broker s a dirty, dingy landscape, which when cleaned turned
out to be a Both (ever since which unlucky moment he had
fancied himself a connoisseur), he filled his house with all the
rubbish to be picked up in such receptacles of trash, whether
in town or country, — Raphaels from Swallow-street, and
Claudes from the Minories.

These measures had at least the effect of shortening the
grievous misery of suspense without hope, the lingering agony
of waiting for ruin. Almost as soon as poor Nat knew the
fact himself — perhaps even before — his creditors discovered
that he was penniless, and that his debts far exceeded' his
assets ; a docket was struck, assignees appointed, the whole
property given up (for Mrs. Kinlay, in her imprudent and
hasty marriage, had neglected the precaution of having even a
part of her own money settled upon herself), and the destitute
family removed to London. Only a month before, Juliet, the
graceful Italian greyhound, had died, and Hester had grieved
(as older and wiser persons than Hester do grieve) over the
loss of her pretty favourite ; but now, as for the last time sHe
paced mournfully those garden walks where Juliet had so often
gambolled at her side, and sat for the last time on the soft
turf under the great mulberry-tree where they had so often
played together, she felt that Juliet, lying peacefully in her
quiet grave amidst a bed of the pure and fragrant rose unique,
had escaped a great evil, and that, if it pleased God, she could
be content to die too.

Still more did that feeling grow upon her on their removal
to a dark and paltry lodging in a dreary suburb of that metro-
polis where every rank and degree, from the roost wretched
penury to the most splendid affluence, finds its appropriate
home. A wretched home was theirs ; — small without com-
fort, noisy without cheerfulness, wanting even the charm df
cleanliness or the solace of hope. Nat's spirits sank under the
trial. Now, for the first time, he viewed before his eyes, he
felt in his very heart’s core, the miserable end of a life of
pleasure; and, when he looked around him and saW the two

R 3

HESTER.

brings whom he loved best on earth involved in the irre-
mediable^ consequences of his extravagance; condemned, for
his fault, to sordid drudgery and squalid want ; punished, not
merely in his own self-indulgent and luxurious habits, but in
his fondest and purest affections, — his mind and bo4y gave
way under the shock ; he was seized with a dangerous illness,
and, after lying for many weeks at the point of death, arose,
weak as an infant, to suffer the pains and penalties of a pre-
mature old age, and that worst penalty of all — the will but
not, the power of exertion I Oh, if he could but have called
back one year of wasted strength, of abused intellect ! The
wish was fruitless, in a worldly sense ; but his excellent wife
wept tears of joy and sorrow over the sincere though tardy
expiation.

She had again written to her uncle, and had received a
harsh and brief reply : — Leave the husband who is un-
worthy of you, and the child — his child — whom his influence
prevailed on you to adopt, and 1 consent to receive you to my
h^art and my dwelling ; but, never whilst you cling with a
fond preference to these degrading connections — never, even
if one should die, until you abandon both, will 1 assist you
as a friend, or own you as a kinswoman.''

Mrs. Kinlay felt this letter to be flnal, and applied no more.
Indeed, had she wished to address the obdurate writer, she
knew not w’here to direct to him : for she ascertained from an
old friend in the neighbourhood of Cranley that, a few weeks
after the date of this letter, he left his beautiful residence, the
seat of the family for many generations, — that the house was
shut up, the servants discharged, and nothing known of the
master beyond a vague report that he was gone abroad.

That hope over, they addressed themselves to the task of
^ming an humble living, and were fortunate enough to And
an old friend, a solicitor of great practice and high character,
who, although he had of late years shunned the prosperous
prodigal, was most ready to assist the needy and repentant
one. Nat, always quick, adroit, and neat-handed, had. been
in his youth a skilful engrosser ; and. Mr. Osborne, flnding on
trial that he could depend upon him, not only employed him
in his office when his failing health allowed him to leave the
house, but trusted him with deeds to take home, in the com-
pletion and sometimes the entire execution of which Mrs.

HESTER.

247

Kinlay, applying herself to master the difficulties of the art,
proved a most able and willing assistant. Hester, too, helped
them and waited on them to the extent of her little power ;
and, once plunged into the healthful tide of virtuous industry
and active exertion, the impoverished family found their suf-
ferings greatly diminished. Even poor Nat, after a hard day's
scrivening, felt his mind lightened and his conscience soothed.
But this was a solace that became more and more rare ; the
attacks of disease pressed on him with increasing frequency
and added severity, and Mrs. Kinlay and Hester were the chief
bread-winners of the family.

In the mean while, all their property at Belford had been
disposed of, — plate, china, linen, the superb collection of
greenhouse and hothouse plants, the trumpery pictures and
the handsome furniture ; and, persons not otherwise unfeeling,
had committed the common but unfeeling act of crowding
emulously to the sale, and talking quietly over the ruin of the
acquaintance whom, not a month before, they had visited and
Uked, — for not to like Mrs. Kinlay, under all the disadvantage
of low spirits, was impossible. Even the dairy-house, with
its pretty garniture of old china and Dutch tiles, was disman-
tled and sold off; a dividend was paid on the debts, and
every trace of poor Nat was swept away from Belford ; the
house where he had resided, which had hung longest on hand,
as being almost too expensive a residence for a town, haying
at last found a purchaser, who, if outward indications might
be trusted, was as different as possible from its late jovial but
unthrifty proprietor.

The new occupant, who took possession in the dusk of the
evening and retired immediately to the back drawing-room,
which had been fitted up for his reception, kept himself so
close within his citadel, the garden and the apartments looking
into it (the shutters of the front windows not being even
opened), that the inhabitants of Queen Street, especially our
friend Mrs. Colby, who lodged in one of a row of small houses
nearly opposite, and kept a pretty keen look-out on her neigh-
. hours, particularly on a fresh arrival, began to think that they
had been misinformed as to the sale of the house, and that i
cross-looking old woman, and a strong homely country girl
who seemed to officiate under her as a drudge, and might be
seen every morning upon her knees scrubbing the steps before

R 4

348

HESTER.

the door, (those steps ivhich no foot ever defiled !) were merely
put in by the assignees to take care of the premises. Influ-
enced by these suspicions, Mrs. Colby, who felt at once de-
frauded and aflronted by not being able to answer the natural
questions respecting her opposite neighbour, and not even
knowing whether she had an opposite neighbour or not, took
am opportunity one fine morning, when both the young and
the old woman were at the door, the one at her usual scrub-
bery, the other taking in some butcher’s meat, to inquire if
their master were arrived. The poor lady took nothing by
her motion ; the Cinderella-looking maid was stupid, a^id cried
Anan ! the crone was surly, and banged the door in her face.
No inquiry ever appeared more completely baffled ; and yet
Mrs. Colby had pretty nearly satisfied herself as to the osten-
sible object of her question (t. e. whether the purchaser were
arrived), having caught a glimpse in the^ tray (our friend
Stephen Lane used to say that Mrs. Colby could see through
a deal board) of some prime rump-steaks and a quarter of
house-lamb, viands usually reserved for a master’s table ; and
having also discerned, standing a little back in the passage,
as if cogitating the question Shall I bark ? ” a beautiful
Italian greyhound, so closely resembling the deceased Juliet,
who had ^en of Mrs. Colby s acquaintance, that if such a
thing as the ghost of a dog had been ever heard of, and that
shrewd and unimaginative lady had been a believer in the un-
profitable mysteries of the Gothic superstition, the light and
graceful little animal might have passed for an apparition.

A week, nay a month passed away, and still Mrs. Colby,
although keeping constant watch, had not been fortunate
enough to see the stranger. It would almost seem that he
had returned her compliment, and kept watch over her goings,
and comings likewise ; for twice at least, as she had the mor-
t^cation to hear, he had gone out during the short time that
she had b^n ofl^ ^guard ; once, as it appeared, to visit the
nursery-garden, fresh stock the hothouses and greenhouses,
and hire suitable gardeners ; the second time, to exchange his
roomy and excellently situated pew in St. Stephen's cWch
(in the fitting up of which poor Nat had spent much money),
flor a small niche in an obscure nook, which had no earthly
reoommeii^otion but that of being close to a side-door at
which the occupant might go out or come in without observa-

KESTBR* >

249

tion^ and being so placed that it could be surmounted by a^
brass rod and a green curtain ^vithout causing annoyance or
inconvenience to any one.

This last circumstance gave an insight into his character
which every subsequent indication strengthened and confirmed.
The man was evidently that plant of English growth called
an oddity. He neither received nor returned visits^ made no
acquaintance^ and seemed to have no associate in the world
besides his cross housekeeper and his beautiful dog. Gradually
he fell into the habit of going into the streets, and entering the
shops to which business called him ; and then it was seen that
he was a tall, erect, elderly gentleman, muscular and well pro*
portioned, with a fine intellectual head, bald on the crown and
forehead, and surrounded by short curly dark hair scarcely
touched with grey, a fine intelligent countenance, and a gene-
ral air of careless gentility — the air of one too sure of his
station to take any thing like trouble in its assertion.

After a time he began to haunt the booksellers* shops, and
showed himself a man well acquainted, not only with literature^
but with bibliography, — a hunter after choice editions and a
dear lover of that perhaps not very extensive class of scarce
works which are v&luable for other qualities besides their
scarcity. In the old E.nglish drama particularly, and old
ballads and romances in all languages, he was curious ; and
his library would have formed as good a subject for a grand
incremation, in the hands of the Curate and Barber, as that
of Don Quixote himself, whom he also emulated in the libera*
lity of his orders and his total regardlessness of expense.

Another of his haunts was the shop of an intelligent print*
seller in the town, whom he employed in burnishing the
frames and assisting him to hang a small but splendid collec*
tion of the finest Italian masters, — such pictures as it was
sin . and shame to shut up within doors more rigidly barred
than those of a prison, inasmuch as none could find entrance ;
and such as collectors — who, even the most tasteful, often
find the pleasure their pictures afford to their own eyes not a
little enhanced by their value in the eyes of others — are gene*
rally ready enough to display.

From the report made by the printseller of these magnificent
paintings, and of the richness and tastefulness of the furniture,
together with his large orders and punctual payments amongst

of the town^ a strong and probably
notkm of the reduoeV great wealth began to pre-
tJB^«fllOiigat the genteel — that is to say, the idle circles of
MHirPt to whom, in the absence of individual occupation,
4l#lhiiig in the shape of mystery and news proved a welcome
I^IIIOBrce from the sameness and ennui of their general con-
dMofk During six months that he had in the place,
nothing snore had been known of him than that his newspapers
njtaiie addressed to Oliver Carlton, Esq. Beyond that, not a
tMio of intelligence had Airs. Colby been able to extract from
llwf postman. He could not even tell her what the papers
Were; and rim felt that it would somewhat have mitigated the
ftrer of curiosity to know whether Mr. Carlton (if Carlton
were indee<i his name — if he were not rather some illustrious
iaboguito) amused his solitude by the perusal of the Times
or the Chronicle, the Standard, or the Courier. Then she
could at least have guessed at his politics, have learnt to think
of him as Whig or Tory. Now he was worse than the Veiled
Prophet — the most provoking puzzle in existence I

This feeling was shared in no small degree by our friend
King Harwood ; for if curiosity ever were a female mono-
poly, (which, by the by, I have not the slightest intention of
admitting,) that time has long since passed away, and this
identical personage, Mr. King Harwood, was in himself a
bright example of a man possessing as much inquisitiveness and
impertinent curiosity as all the sex put together. He it was who
proposed to Mrs. Colby to storm Mr. Carlton’s castle severally,
and see whether their united powers of observation could not
elicit some circumstance that might tend to elucidate the
mystery ; and, after some hesitation, Mrs. Colby consented ;
she being armed with the fair pretence of charity, as one of
the lady collectors of a penny society ; whilst King had pro-
vided himself with a letter from a young clergyman, who was
aUuding for an evening lectureship at a public institution in
London, and had requested Earl Harwood to canvass any of
the governors with whom he chanced to be acquainted, enclos-
ing a list in which appeared the name of Oliver Carlton.

Furnished with this document, our friend the beau ap-
proached, though with some caution, the grand object of his
euriosity~the Bluebeard’s chamber of Queen-street The
point of admission had been regarded by both parties as a

BE8TAB.

m

question of considerable difficulty^ ^*Not at home *' being
regular answer to all visitors ; and oiur adventurer had deter.*
mined to watch Mr. Carlton home to dinner^ and walk boldly
after him into the house ; a plan which was the more easily
accomplished^ as the milkman^ happening to stop at the door
at the same instant^ favoured the manoeuvre^ by engaging the
attention of the stupid maid, who answered her nias^r^s
knock. What passed between them, we have no business to
know. Mr. Harwood would not tell, and Mr. Carlton did
not ; even Mrs. Colby’s ingenuity could not extract more from
the crest-fallen King, than that the interview had beett short
and decisive, (indeed, having been watching him from her
window with Dr. Fenwick’s stop-watch in her hand, she
knevr that the time which elapsed between his stealthy entrance
and' ms rapid exit was exactly four minutes and forty-three
seconds,) and that Mr. Carlton was a brute ! Upon which
encouragement, Mrs. Colby forthwith took up the Society's
documents and marched over the way herself — curious, per-
haps, to know what sort of brute she might find him.

The lady was admitted without difficulty, and found her-
self, with a facility which she had uot expected, and which
put her a good deal out of her play, in the presence of Mr.
Carlton, and compelled by his manner to plunge at once into
the affairs of the charity. A penny society ! ” exclaimed
her host, with an expression of sarcasm which only a long
habit of scorn can give to any lips ; you come for a penny
subscription ! Madam, I have just had the honour of a visit
from a gentleman, who is, he tells me, called King — King,
doubtless, of the Busy bodies ! Do not compel me to tell a
lady that she is well fitted to be their Queen.”

And Mrs. Colby found it convenient to take up her papers
and march off, as her luckless predecessor had done before her.

From this time Mr. Carlton continued inaccessilde and
unmolested, holding intercourse with none but the poor of the
place, whom he relieved with great munificence and some
caprice. He was evidently a man of fortune and education ;
of retired and studious habits, of very good principles, and
very bad temper (soured probably by some domestic ca-
lamity, for it is our English way to quarrel with the whole
world if injured by one individual) ; and as the Belford peo-
ple got used to his oddities, and cOased to watch his comings

m

HMnUU

and he, in his umi, came to regard the persons
wongil sriiom he lired no more than the passing and unob-
•cr|iii| mwfia of London or Paris — those mighty streams of
nm^ati life, amongst which an isolated individual is but as a
dfpp of water in a great river,— his dislike to being seen in*
aensiUy wore away, and he walked in and out of his house as
fredy and quietly as his neighbours.

It was now more than four years since the Kinlays had left
Belford, and little had been heard of them during their ah*
sepoe. Poor Nat, who, at his heigh| of popularity, had won
only the undesirable distinction of being liked, but not esteemed,
even by the thoughtless, whilst by the sober-minded he was
universally condemned, had been succeeded by another good
fellow ” amongst' the parties which he frequented, whose
newer songs and fresher jokes had entirely effaced the memory
of their old boon companion — such are the friendships of
men of pleasure! — whilst his wife, though universally re-
spected, had shrunk so completely from every sort of intimacy,
that, amongst her many acquaintances, there was not one who
lived with her upon more familiar terms than is implied by a
polite interchange of visits. Well-wishers she had many,
friends she had none ; and almost the first tidings that were
heard of her in Belford during those four years were, that she
had returned there a widow ; that her husband had died after a
tedious illness j and that she herself, in a state of failing health
and utter poverty, had arrived in the town, accompanied only
by Hester^ had taken a small lodging nearly opposite her own
old house, and intended to support herself by needlework.

'Why she chose for her place of abode a spot so well calcu-
lated to revive melancholy recollections, can be accounted for
only on the'principle which none can understand, but all have
lelt, that endears to us the scene; of past sufferings. This
was undoubtedly her chief reason ; although she sometimes

fLto herself, with desperate calmness, ^^This is m)^ parish,
1^ will not give the overseers the trouble of removing me
ijpse 1 am compelled to apply to them.*' Another cause for
‘ fixing in Belford might found in its bejng the resL.
Ojf a . favourite old servant, new a respectable mantua-
majaef the town, who was likely tq be useful to her iitpro*
curing employment, and to whom, in case of her own death

HEStER. ’553

she could entrust the child of her pity and her love — her own
dear Hester.

Through this attached old servant, — why did I say that
she had no friend in Belford? — it was soon made known to
the ladies of the place that Mrs. Kinlay declined all visiting
and all assistance, but would be thankful for employment at
her needle, at the customary rate of payment ; and she and
Hester (her zealous and most efficient assistant) were soon in
full occupation ; any interval in the supply of plain-work
(always so precarious) b^ing supplied by dresses or millinery,
to begin or to finish, from the shop of their humble but faith*
ful friend Mrs. Boyd.

Hester, for whom Mrs. Kinlay felt that she had sacrificed
much, and whom she loved all the better for that sacrifice, was
. a most sweet and gentle creature. Tall of her age — slender
and graceful, though rather with a bending willowy grace,
than the erect deportment of the dancing-school, — with a
profusion of curling hair darkened into the soft colour of the
ripe hazel*nut, a skin fair and polished as that of the garden-
lily, a high open forehead, a mild grey eye, and a cheek pale
until she spoke or smiled, and then glowing with the very
tint of the maiden-hlush-rose : all this — and, above all this,
that smile so full of tenderness and sweetness, and that timid
manner, and that low and pleading voice, were irresistibly
charming. And her mind was as charming as her person*
Wholly unaccomplished, since for accomplishments she had
had no time, she had yet had the great and solid advantage of
the society of a refined and cultivated woman, who fidk^d to
her, not as a child to be instructed, but as a companion to
whom she was pouring out the fulness of her own knowledge and
information, and unlocking the stores of a memory rich, above
all, in the highest poetry of our language. Even the drudgery
of the quill, had had its use in Hester's education, first by
forming Aer mind to habits of patient attention, and then by
allowing her, when the mystery was conquered and the task of
copying was become merely mechanical, long Intervals for
silent thought. So that, at little more than thirteen years of
age, her reflective and somewhat imaginative character had the
maturity of twenty; thosO circumstances of her situation
which would be commonly OalM disadvantages having acted
* upon her mind as the wind and rain of March upon the

HESTER.

254

violet^ strengthening the flower, and raising it into a richer
tint and a more exceeding fragrance.

Her pkasure in returning to Belford, — to the country/*
af she fondly called it- — was excessive. Accustomed to
firesh air and clear sunny light, the closeness and gloom of
London had seemed to double the labour to which she bad
b<%n condemned ; and to inhabit again a street on the very
outskirts of the town, in which three minutes' run would lead
her through the by -lane she knew so well, into the beautiful
meadows and pastures of the Dairy Farm, was a blessing for
whidi she could never, she thought, be sufficiently grateful*
A few “ natural tears she shed ” to the memory of her kind
protector — her father, as she had been taught to call him ;
hut for herself, and even for her dear mother (for “mother "
was the fond name by which she had always been permitted to
address Mrs. Kinlay), she was full of hope. “The air
would restore that dear mother's health, and she should he
able to support them both — she was sure she should. Half
an hour's run in the fields and lanes in the early morning, or
in the dusk of twilight, and a long, long ramble every Sunday
afternoon, would make her strong enough for any exertion ;
die wished her dear mother would let her work only for one
week without helping her — she was sure she could keep
them both." And as she said this, her sweet face gladdened
^d glowed with her earnestness, the sad expression vanisheil,
and she looked as happy and as hopeful as she really felt.

Neither she nor Mrs, Kinlay had made any inquiry respect,
ing thehr opposite neighbour, the occupier of the house where
they bad lived for so many years. Their landlady, a well-in-
tentioned hut very common person, was not of a class to tempt
them into any communication on a subject so painful and so
afiecting ; and Mrs. Boyd — who had lived with Mrs. Kinlay
from childhood, had pressed her coming to Belford, and had
engaged for her her present lodging, with a vague intimation
that s^e thought the situation would be beneficial, and hoped
dear mistress would not object to its vicinity to her former
4wfiling — had never entered on the subject. Ten days had
without their happening to see their misanthropic
n^hl^ur, when one bright autumn mprning, (for it was-
early in October that they arrived in Queen-street,) Hester
sitting at work at the open window, her landlady and Mrs,

UE8TEB.

255

Kitilay being both in the room, saw him issue from hk own
door followed by the beautiful Italian greyhound^ and ex.
claimed at its resemblance to, her own regretted pet, her
faithful Juliet: Never was such a likeness!'* cried she;
"look ! dear mother ! only look ! " •

" It’s Mr. Carlton and his dog — Romeo, I think they call
him," observed the landlady, advancing to the window*

Romeo ! how strange ! my dog’s name was Juliet," re-
plied Hester. Do, dearest mother, come and see how lik^
this little dog is to her in all her pretty ways. See how he
frisks round his master and jumps almost into his arms ! Pray
look ! "

And turning round to demand still more earnestly Mrs.
Kinlay's attention, she saw her leaning back in her chair pale
and motionless, the needlework on which she had been em-
ployed fallen from her hands, and her whole appearance and
attitude bespeaking her inability to speak or move. She had
not fainted, and yet she seemed scarcely conscious of the ca-
resses of poor Hester, or of her efforts to revive and rouse
her. Her first articulate words were a desire to see Mrs. Boyd;
and by the time she arrived, Mrs. Kinlay was sufficiently
collected to send the anxious girl for a walk, whilst she con-
versed in private with their humble but faithful friend.

The result of this consultation was a long letter written by
Mrs. Kinlay and despatched to the post-office by Mrs. Boyd ;
and, until the reply arrived on the second morning, an evident
increase of illness and agitation on the part of the writer.

This reply consisted of a large packet, apparently, as
Hester thought from a transient glance which she was too de-
licate to repeat, of her dear mother's own letter returned with
two or three lines in the envelope. Whatever might *be the
contents, the effect was exquisitely painful 1 Inured as the
unhappy lady had been to suffering, this stroke seemed the
most severe of any ; and Hester could scarcely repress the af-
fectionate anxiety which prompted her twenty times a day to
implore that this new grtef might be confided to her. Some^
way or other she could not avoid connecting it in her own
mind with Romeo and his master; she even thought that the
name of Carlton caipe across her as a sound once familiar ;
she coul4 not recall when she had heard it, or where— -the
trace on her memory was faint and indistinct as the recoUec-

556

tion of a dream -^but assuredly the name was not new to her.
Again and again was she on the point of making some in.

3uiry either of Mrs. Kinlay or of Mrs. Boyd ; but respect in
le one instance and delicacy in the other — and, above all,
Ae early and salutary habit of self-restraint — withheld her
from touching on the subject. The only approach to it that
she ventured was, a remark on the singular coincidence of
name in the two dogs: Romeo and Juliet — surely it was
strange ! ’*

Both are common names for Italian greyhounds/* was
Mrs. Kinlay’s quiet reply ; and nothing more passed between
them.

In the mean .while Christmas approached, and the invalid’s
health became more and more precarious ; and their united
labours (although liberally paid) became more and more inade-
quate to the additional expenses of winter and of sickness.
Mrs. Kinlay, whose hoard of jewels and trinkets had been
nearly exhausted by the long illness and the burial of her hus-
band, now disposed even of her laces and linens, reserving no-
thing but mere necessaries for herself and Hester, and a small
but i^autifuland valuable repeater — the last gift, as she said,
of a dear friend.

This resource and Hester s incessant labours kept them
through the dark months ; for the poor child found that No-
vember, and December, and January could be dark even out
of London : and the winter passed away unmarked by any oc-
currence, except the formation of a warm and lasting friend,
ship between herself and Romeo. One day, by some strange
accident, the graceful 14tle creature, shy and timid as a fawn,
had lost his master, missed him in some pf the booksellers’
imd printsellers* shops that he frequented ; and when, after
u fruitless search, he addressed himself in distress and per.
plexity to the task of finding his way home, he encountered a
tribe pf nPisy urchins, the pests of the streets, ripe for mis-
chief, who seeing the poor little animal panting and breathless
£at fear, surrounded it shouting’ and hooting, hallooed their
own ours upon it, chased it as if it had been a wild beast,
und finally followed it up the street with the cry of A mad
ilogi”

In this plight, Hester, going to the chemist s for medicine,
met the worried and bewilder^ creature, who on her

ilSSTBR.

257

calling Romeo !'* came to her at oncc> and sprang into her
arms ; and little as the slight gentle girl seemed calculated to
encounter the small mob of mischievous boys already emula-
ting the hero of Hogarth’s Progress of Cruelty, and promising
candidates for a similar catastrophe ; yet, strong in womanly
scorn and righteous indignation, she succeeded in rescuing her
trembling protege, and kept his pursuers at bay until, still carry-
ing him in her arms, she took refuge with her frightened charge
in a respectable shop. There she sat down with him in her lap,
and soothed and caressed him until his fear seemed lost in love
and gratitude to his fair preserver. Dogs are great physiogno-
mists,— that is admitted on all hands; they are also voice-fan-
ciers ; and Romeo showed his discrimination in both these points,
by being never weary of looking at his new friend’s sweet face,
or bf listening to her melodious tones. They were obliged to
part, for Hester felt it a point of duty to return him as speedily
as might be to the master who seemed to love nothing else in
the world, and accordingly she took him to the door before he
had been even missed ; but from that moment an attachment
of the warmest kind was established between them. Romeo
loved Hester as the most grateful of all animals loves those who
have served him*; and Hester loved Romeo witli that still
stronger and more delightful affection which a young and
generous girl feels for one whom she has served.

Under the guidance of this sentiment,’ it was quite extraor-
dinary, considering how little either party went out, that they
should so often contrive to meet each other. Romeo watched
for Hester, and Hester watched for Romeo. It was an inno-
cent romance, a rare instance of clandestine intercourse
without guilt or shame. Whether Mr. Carlton knew of their
meetings, never appeared. Mrs. Kinlay did, and felt. a plea-
sure which few things now could give her when Romeo
hounded up stairs with Hester to pay her a visit. Frugal as
they were, denying themselves all but necessaries, they could
not resist the temptation of keeping a supply of the delicate
biscuits which that chhice and fragile race of dogs are known
to prefer to any other food ; and Romeo, however difficult to
coax into eating at his own home, never refused the cates pre-

>

* Vide note at the end of the story.

258

HESTER.

pared for him by the fair hands of his new friends. It was a
very singular and very genuine attachment.

The winter, although gloomy, had been mild; and even in the
Christmasjweek Hester, who knew every dell where the starry
primrose grew, and every hedge-row where the violet blossomed,
had cheered the sick-room of Mrs. Kinlay by a nosegay of
primroses ; whilst during the whole of February she had con-
trived to find on southern banks, and in nooks sheltered from
almost every wind, covered by withered grass ot couching
amongst short mossy turf, a few, and a very few, early violets ;
— for those sweet flowers know and obey their season, and
although an occasional straggler, tempted by the mildness of
the weather, may steal into day, yet the countless multitude,
the mass of fragrant blossoms (unlike the primrose, which,
provided not checked by frost, will cover the ground in mid-
winter) reserves its simple beauty and its exquisite perfume
for its own month of March. And now March had arrived —
a March soft and genial as April; and Mrs. Kinlay appearing
much revived by the beauty of the weather and the fresh im-
pulse given to all nature by the breath of Spring, Hester was
most anxious to win her into walking with her one fine Sunday
as far as the pastures of the Dairy Farm, now let to an old
milkman, who, churlish to all the world, but courteous to
Hester, had extended to her, and to her alone, the privilege of
gathering violets in his hedge-rows. The first day that she
had attempted to revisit her old haunts, she had found the
high boarded gate which separated the street from the lane —
a by-lane running along the side of Mr. Carlton’s prenuses,
then winding between a double row of tall elms, and opening
into the rich enclosures of the Dairy Farm — she had found
the gate triply locked, and had been seen peeping wistfully
through the barrier by Giles Cousins, the milkman aforesaid —
who had, and not without having fairly earned the title, the
reputation of being the veriest churl in Belford — in, as it
«eemed, the least auspicious moment that could have been
chosen for such an encounter, inasmuch as he was in the very
act of driving before him a small rabble of riotous boys whom
he had caught breaking his fences in search of a gleaning of
hazel-nuts. The young imps (some qjf that same band of
ne’er-do-well urchins who subsequently signalised themselves
in the attack on poor Romeo) resisted amain, screaming, and

HESTER*

259

shouting, and struggling in all manner of ways ; but Giles
Cousins, armed with the long and powerful whip with which
he was accustomed to gather together a tribe of unruly cows,
was too many for the gentlemen. He drove them to the gate,
unlocked it, and thrust them forth into the street. Hester
was meekly turning away ; but the same strong hand that had
thrust the rioters out so roughly, kindly seized the gentle girl,
and drew her in !

Miss Hester ! to be sure it is Miss Hester ! and how she
is grown ! Don’t you go, Miss ; pray don’t you go. You
have a right, sure, to come here whenever you choose ; and so
has Madam — I heard she was come to Belford ; and I’ll
send you a key, to let yourself in as often as you like. The
cows are as quiet as quiet can be ; and my dame will be glad
to see you at the cottage — main glad she’ll be. It looks
quite natural to see you here again.”

Poor thing !” thought he within himself, as he turned
away from Hester’s tearful thanks ; poor thing ! she must
have known hard usage up in London, if a kind word makes
her cry. And such a pretty harmless creature as it is ! just
as harmless-looking as when it was no higher than that dock.”
(beginning to tug away at the strong-rooted weed) which
Jack 'J’imms ought to be ashamed of himself for not having
pulled up, passing it as he does every day, night and morning,
and being told of it six times a week into the bargain. Poor
Miss Hester 1” continued Giles, having by a manful haul
succeeded in eradicating his tough and obstinate enemy, and
letting his thoughts flow again into their kindly channel —
poor Miss Hester ! I must get my mistress to send her a pat
of butter now and then, and a few apples from the old orchard ;
and we must manage to get her and madam to take a drop of
milk night and morning. We shall never miss it ; and if we
did miss it, it's no more than we ought to do. 1 shall never
forget how main kind poor madam was to my mistress andifle
when we lost our little Sally. To my mind, Miss Hester
favours Sally — only she’s more delicate, like. We must
send her the key and the apples, and manage about the milk.”

And, with a downright heartiness and honesty of kindness
that Mrs. Kinlay could not resist, the affair of the milk, so
great a comfort to an invalid, was managed ; and Mrs. Cousins
being- quite as grateful as her husband, and entertaining the

8 2

266

HB8TBR.

t$Xie^ of Hester’s resemblance to the child whom they
hid lost the youngest and the favourite, — she had run to
die Hairy-house to see them as often as she could ; though^ so
^losdy was she occupied, that this her brief half-hour’s holi-
ibcf occurred far too rarely for their wishes. Her last visit
had been on that Sunday mornings when — in walking up the
little path^ that led from the gate to the house, between two
borders thickly set^ with bunches of anemones of the rich red
and purple, as vivid as those colours in old stained glass, the
secret of producing which is said to be lost now-a-days (luckily
Nature never loses her secrets), alternating with tufts of
double primroses, and of the pretty plant called by the country
people the milk-blossom, backed first by a row of stocks and
wallflowers, and then by a taller range of gooseberry and
currant bushes just stealing into leaf — and, finally, in arriv-
ing at the rustic porch where the sweetbriar was putting forth
its first fragrant breath drawn out by the bright sunshine suc-
ceeding to a balmy shower, — Hester had felt in its fullest
force the sweet influence of the sweetest of the seasons, and
had determined, if possible, to persuade Mrs. Kinlay into par-
taking her enjoyment, so far at least as her strength would
permit, by getting, if not to the dwelling itself, at least into
some of the nearest meadows of the Dairy Farm.

At the outset of the walk, Hester found with delight that
her experiment had succeeded beyond her expectation. The
day was delicious — bright, sunny, breezy, — for the light and
pleasant air, though still on the wintry side of the vernal
equinox, was too mild and balmy to deserve the name of wind,
— and her dear companion seemed to feel in its fullest extent
the delightful exhilaration so finely described by Gray, who,
of all the poets of his own somewhat artificial time, has best
succeeded in bringing strikingly and vividly before us the com-
monest and most familiar feelings of our nature : —

** See the vrretch that long has tost
Oil the thorny bed of pain
At length repair his vigour lost.

And breathe and walk again ;

The meanest floweret of the vale,

The simplest note that swells the gale.

The common sun, the air. the skies,

To him are opening paraaise.”

Unfinished Ode an the Pkasures ariHngfrom
yictuitude.-^M.Aaon*B Life of Gray.

The season and the scenery were alike in harmony with the

BESTEB*

251

buoylint sensations of returning health. The glorious sun was
careering in the deep blue sky, dappled by a thousand fleecy
clouds which floated at a distance around the bright luminary
without for a moment dimming his effulgence : the sunbeams
glanced between the tall trees on the grassy margent of the
lane, striking on the shining garlands of the holly and ivy
with a sparkling radiance ; glittering through the dark leaves
of the bramble, as though each particular leaf were a pendant
emerald ; dwelling with a purplish flush on the young shoots
of the woodbine ; and illumining the tender green of the wintry
mosses, and the pure hues of the pale primrose and the crimson-
tipped daisy, with a mingled brilliancy and delicacy to which
the most glowing colouring of Rubens or of Titian would be
faint, dim, and spiritless. A slender brooklet danced spark-
ling by the roadside ; young lambs were bleating in the mea-
dows; the song-thrush and the blackbird were whistling in
the hedgerows ; the skylark was chanting overhead ; and
the whole scene, animate and inanimate, accorded with Mrs.
Kinlay's profound and devout feeling of thankfulness to the
Providence which, depriving her of artificial luxuries, had
yet restored her to the enjoyment of the commonest but purest
gifts bestowed on man — the ever-varying and never-cloying
beauties of Nature.

She walked on in silence ; beguiled, partly by the real charm
of the scene and the hour — the shallow pool on the top of
which the long grass went trailing — the vigorous and life-like
look of the leafless elm, into which one might almost see the.
sap- mounting — the long transparent sprays of the willow,
seen between the eye and the sunbeams like rods of ruddy
light — the stamped leaves of the budded cowslip — the long
wreaths of ground-ivy mingling its brown foliage and purple
flowers with the vivid reds and pinks of the wild geranium,
and the snowy strawberry blossom lurking in the southern
hedge ; and partly by thoughts sweet yet mournful — the
sweeter perhaps because mournful of friends who had trodden
with her that very path in bygone years, of all that she had
felt and all that she had suffered in those quiet scenes ; — when,
after passing a bit of neglected wild plantation, where the ten-
der green of the young larch contrasted with the dark and
dusky hue of the Scotch fir, and the brown sheaths of the
horse-chestnut just bursting into leaf; where the yellow flowers

s 3

262

HESTER.

of the feathery broom mingled with the deeper gold of the
richly scented furze^ and the earth was carpeted with primroses
springing amidst layers of dropped fir-cones ,* — after passing
^is wild yet picturesque bit of scenery, which brought still
more fully to recollection the faulty but kindly person by
whom the little wood had been planned, she became suddenly
exhausted, and was glad to sit down to rest on the trunk of a
large beech newly cut by the side of the lane, whilst Hester
passed into an adjacent field to fill her basket with the violets,
whose exquisite odour, drawn out by the sun, penetrated through
the hedge and perfumed the sheltered retreat which she had
chosen. She sank into her lowly seat with a placid smile, and
dismissed her young and affectionate companion to her plea-
sant labour, with a charge not to hurry — to ramble where she
liked, and enjoy the beauty of the flowers, and the summer-
like feeling of the light and fragrant air.

And Hester, as she bounded like a fawn into those sunny
meadows, abandoned herself to a fulness of enjoyment such as
for many years the poor child, surrounded by distress and dif-
ficulty, and thoughtful far beyond her years, had not expe-
rienced. Every sense was gratified. The sunshine, the flowers,
the hum of insects, the song of birds, the delicious breath of
spring, and, more than all, that feeling — to her so rare, the
unwonted sense of liberty ! Well sings the old Scottish poet —

“ Ah ! freedom is a noble thing !

Freedom makes man to have liking !

Freedom all solace to man gives ;

He Uvea at ease that flreeiy lives.”

BARBona— The Bruce.

And Hester tripped along the meadow as light as the yellow
butterfly brought into life by that warm sunshine, and as busy
as the bee wandering from blossom to blossom. It was a lawn-
like series of old pastures, divided by deep ditches, fringed by
two or three of the wild irregular plantations, edged by shaggy
bits 6f mossy paling, which I have attempted to describe ; and
dotted about by little islands of fine timber trees and coppice-
like underwood, the reliques of hedgerows now long cut down,
breaking and almost concealing the massy buildings, the towers,
and spires of the town. One short bank, crowned by high
elms, projected a little way into the pastures like some woody
headland, at right angles from the hedge under which she was
walking ; the hedge being thickly set with white violets, those

HESTER,

263

pretty daughters of the earth and sun^’* whilst^ all around
the lofty elms, the very ground was coloured by the deep
purple which forms, perhaps, the sweetest variety of that
sweetest of plants. In the hedgerow, too, were primroses yel-
low and lilac and white, all the tints commonly known blos-
soming under the pearly buds of the blackthorn, those locked
buttons on the gemmed trees and Hester, as she stooped to
fill her basket, first mused gravely on a problem which has
posed wiser heads than hers, — the mystery, — still unexplained,
of the colouring of flowers — and then, with a natural transi-
tion, applied herself to recollecting the different epithets given
to these blossoms of spring by the greatest of poets; for Hester
loved poetry with an intensity which might be said to have
partly formed her character, and to hear Mrs. Kinlay read
Shakspeare, or recite some of the stirring lyrics of his contem-
poraries, had been the chief solace of her monotonous labours.

^ Pale primrose said Hester to herself, — ^ upon faint

primrose beds * ” — ^ violets dim ' ” — ^ the nodding violet '
— What pictures ! and how often he returns to them, so
beautifully, and so fondly I surely he must have loved them !
And he speaks of the robin-redbreast, too ! ” added she, as,
startled by her gentle movements, the hen-bird flew from her
careless mossy nest in a stump of hawthorn, exhibiting her
five pale eggs with red spots, to one who would not have
harmed them for the fee-simple of Bel ford. She passed on
rapidly, yet cautiously, that the frightened bird might the
sooner return to her charge ; and arriving under the clump of
elms, was amused by another set of nest-builders, those pug-
nacious birds the rooks, who had a colony overhead, and were
fighting for each other’s clumsy stick- mansions, as if they had
been the cleverest arcihitects that ever wore feathers. The
sight of these black gentlefolks made a change in the current
of Hester s poetical recollections, and she began crooning ”
over to^herself the elegant and pathetic ballad of The Thjee
Ravens,** one of those simple and tender effusions which have
floated down the stream of time, leaving the author still un-
guessed. Then, by some unperceived link of association, her
mind drifted to another anonymous ditty of a still earlier age,
the true and pleasant satire called Sir Penny and when
she had done with little round knave,** she by. an easy

transition began reciting the fine poem entitled The Soul s

s 4

264

^BSTBR.

Errand,” and attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh ; and had just
arrived at the stanza —

Tell fortune of her blindness,

Tell nature of decay,

Tell 0‘iendship of unkindness,

Tell Justice of delay ;

And if they will reply,

Then give them all the lie ; **

when she was aware of footsteps passing along the adjoining
lane, and little Romeo, creeping through the thick hedge,
flung himself into her arms.

During her poetical quotations she had gathered even to
satiety from the purple bank, and had returned to the hedge-
row near the gate for the purpose of collecting the white
violets which grew there in profusion ; so that she was now
nearly opposite the point where she had left Mrs. Kinlay, and
was the unintentional auditress of a conversation which cleared
at once the mystery that had hitherto hung over Mr. Carlton.

The first sentence that she heard rooted Hester to the spot.
He seemed to have passed, or to have intended passing, and to
have returned on some unexplained but uncontrollable impulse.
His voice was at first low and calm — studiously calm, though
not unkind, but became impassioned as he proceeded ; —

Elizabeth ! No, do not rise ! Sit down again, I entreat
you. You are not well enough to stand. You must have
been very ill."'

I have been very ill.”

Ay, you are greatly altered. We are both greatly altered.
You have suffered much ? ”

Oh, very much ! ”

“ Yes ! we have both suffered ! I am no man for general
acquaintance, or for the slight and trivial companionship
which this selfish bustling world dignifies with the name of
friendship. I lived, as you know, in my books, and in the
one solitary tie which still connected me with the world.
Fatherless and motherless, the only child of my only sister,
you were to me, Elizabeth, as my own daughter — endeared
to me by the cares of twenty years, by habit, by kindred, and
by taste. And when you, whom I loved as a daughter,
whom I trusted as a friend, — when you abandoned me for
one so unworthy

tie is dead. I beseech you, spare his memory ! He was

^£9TBm

265

kind to me — I loved him ! For my sake, for your own,
spare his memory ! — You would not wish to see me die
here before your eyes I **

When for Aim, then — being such as he was — you de-
serted me, it seemed as if the earth were sinking under my
feet, as if the sun were extinguished in the heavens ; hooks
ceased to interest me — my food did not nourish, my sleep
did not refresh me — my blood was turned to gall ; I vowed
never to see, to pardon, or to succour you (for well I knew
that you would soon want succour), whilst you remained with
him, and acted under his guidance ; and heartsick and miser-
able, I left the home in which we had been so happy, to
wander over the world in search of the peace and oblivion
which I failed to find: and then, under some strange and
moody influence, I settled here, in the spot that I should most
have avoided, to feed my spirit full with bitter recollections.
Elizabeth, those tears and sobs seem to respond to my feel-
ings. They seem to say, that on your part also the old and
holy love of near kindred and long association is not quite
forgotten ? ”

Oh, never I never ! ”

Why not then accede to my condition — my single con-
dition, and return with me to the beautiful and deserted home
of our common ancestors, its heiress, and its mistress ? Come
with me, my dearest niece, and be, as you once were, my
companion, my almoner, my friend ! Come with me, as the
comfort and solace of my old age, and find health and happi-
ness in the abode of your youth ! Why should you hesitate ? ”

I do not hesitate.”

It is but to dismiss his daughter — the illegitimate off*-
spring of a low and licentious passion — one whom it was an
insult to bring into contact with his pure and chaste wife ! ”

‘‘ One who is herself all that is pure and innocent, and
gentle and good ! I do not defend my own conduct. In
abandoning you, my more than father, I deserved all punish-
men. Grievously as I have suffered, I have felt the chastise-
ment to be merited. But if I were to desert this orphan child
— his orphan — the grateful, tender child who has shared all
my sorrows, has nursed me in sickness, has worked for me in
health ; if I were, for any worldly good — even for that best
of all blessings, your affection — to cast her friendless and

S66

£[ EsV

helpless upon the worlds — I should never know another quiet
moment — I should sink under grief and remorse ! What
would become of her, growing as she is into such elegant, such
exquisite beauty, and with a mind pure, graceful, and delicate
as her person ? What would be her fate ? Her mother has
long been dead. She has no kindred, no natural friend —
none but myself, poor, feeble, helpless, sick, and dying as I
am ; but, while I live, I will never abandon her — never !
never ! It breaks my heart to part now from you. But I
cannot desert my Hester ; as you have felt for me, so do I
feel for her. Do not ask me to abandon the child of my love?'*

‘‘ I ask nothing. I offer you the choice between her and
me. I am rich, Elizabeth ; my large estates have accumulated,
during your long absence, until I can hardly count my own
riches ; and you are poor — grievously poor ; — think before
you decide.**

1 have decided. Poor I am — grievously poor ; — but
in giving up your affection, I resign more than riches. I
have decided — I have chosen — I do not hesitate. But say.
Good b’ye 1 Bid God bless me ! Do not leave me in unkind-
ness, Speak to me before you go, or you will break my heart.
Speak to me, if only one wbrd I **

‘‘ Farewell, Elizabeth ! May you be happier than I
shall be!**

Oh, God bless you I God for ever bless you, my best and
earliest friend I *'

And then Hester heard Mr. Carlton move slowly away —
she felt rather than heard that he turned away ; and Mrs.
Kinlay remained weeping bitterly. Hester was glad to hear
her sobs. She herself could not cry. Something rose in her
throat, and she felt as if it would suffocate her — but she
could not cry. She lay upon the ground lost in thought,
with her little basket by her side, and Romeo still in her arms,
until he sprang from her at his master s call, oversetting her
violets in his haste : and then she roused herself, and rose
from the bank on which she had been lying, picked up her
scattered flowers, and walked with a strange calmness to the
other end of the field, that, if Mrs. Kinlay should seek her,
she might not be led to suspect that she had overheard the
conversation. And by the time Mrs. Kinlay did join her, each
was sufficiently composed to conceal her misery from the other.

HESTER*

267

On the Friday of the ensuing week^ a low and timid knock
was heard just before sunset at the house of Mr. Carlton ; and
on opening the door^ the housekeeper was at once astonished
and perplexed to discover Hester, who inquired gently and
firmly if she could see her master ; and who, on his passing
accidentally through the hall, settled the question herself, by
advancing with a mixture of decision and modesty, and re-
questing to speak with him. Perplexed even more than his
wondering housekeeper, he yet found it impossible to repulse
the innocent child ; and leading the way into the nearest
room, he sat down on the first chair, and motioned for her to
be seated also.

It happened that this room was the one in which Mrs.
Kinlay had principally lived, and where Hester had* passed
the happiest days of her childhood. The windows opened on
the pretty velvet lawn on which stood the great mulberry
tree ; and her own particular garden, the flower-bed that was
called hers, and sowed and planted by her own hands under
Mrs, Kinlay’s direction, was right before her, glowing with
the golden jonquil, and the crisp curled hyacinth — the
choicest flowers of the season. There too, on that short soft turf
where she had so often played with her own fond and faithful
dog, lay the equally fond and faithful Romeo, basking in the
last rays of the setting sun. The full tide* of sad and tender
recollection gushed upon her heart ; the firmness which she
had summoned for the occasion deserted her, her lip quivered,
and she burst into tears.

Stern and misanthropic though he were, Mr. Carlton was
not only a man, but a gentleman, by birth, education, and
habit ; and could not see female tears, especially in his own
house, and caused, as he could not but suspect, by himself,
without feeling more discomposed than he would have cared
to acknowledge. He called immediately for water, for wine,
for reviving essences, and himself administered a plentiful
aspersion of eau de Cologne^ and loosened the strings of her
cottage bonnet.

Whilst so engaged, he could not help dwelling on her ex-
quisite and delicate beauty. How like a lily ! was the
thought that passed through his mind as he gazed on the fair
broad forehead, with its profusion of pale brown ringlets
hanging down on either side ; the soft dovelike eyes, the

HESTER.

pencilled brows, and the long lashes ‘from which th^ tears
dropped on the polished cheeks; the fine carving of the
youthful features, the classical turn of the swan-like neck, the
pliant grace of the slender figure, the elegant moulding of
those trembling hands with their long ivory fingers ; and,
above all, the mixture of sweetness and intelligence, of gentle-
ness and purity, by which, even in her present desolation, the
orphan girl was so eminently distinguished. She still wore
mourning for Mr. Kinlay ; and the colour of her dress, though
of the simplest form and the commonest material, added to
the resplendent fairness of her complexion : — How like a
lily ! how elegant ! how ladylike ! how pure! ” was the thought
that clung to Mr. Carlton ; and when, recovering her calm-
ness by*a strong effort, Hester raised her eyes to the person
whom she feared most in the world, she met his fixed on her
with a look of kindness which she did not think those stern
features could have worn.

Her first words banished the unwonted softness, and recalled
all the haughtiness of his common expression,

I beg you to forgive me, sir, for having been so foolish as
to cry and to occasion you this trouble. But I could not help
it. This room brought to my mind so many past scenes of
joy and sorrow, and so many friends that I shall never see
again — dear, dear Mrs. Kinlay ! — and my poor father I it
seems but yesterday that he was sitting by the fireside just
where you do now, with me upon his knee, talking so gaily and
so kindly ! And to think that he is dead, and how he died !
— And Hester turned away and wept without restraint

She was aroused from her grief by the stern interrogatory
of Mr. Carlton : I understood that you desired to speak
to me ? ”

1 did so, sir,” was the reply ; “ but this strange foolish-
ness ! ” — and for a moment Hester paused. She resumed,
however, almost instantly ; her sweet voice at first a little
faltering, but acquiring strength as she proceeded in her story,
which Mr. Carlton heard in attentive silence.

" I did take the liberty of asking to speak with you, sir,
that I might confess to you, what perhaps you may think
wrong, that being within hearing last Sunday of your conver-
sation with Mrs. Kinlay^ I remained an undetected listener
to that which was certainly not meant by either party for my

BESTEIU

269

knowledge. I was accidentally on the other side of the hedge
gathering violets ; arid I suppose — I dare say — that I ought
to have come into the lane. But I could not move ; I was
as if speU- bound to the place. What you said, and what she
said explained to me things that had puzzled me all my life
long. Though taught to call him father, — and a kind father
lie was to me ! — and her mother — such a mother as never
poor girl was blest with ! — I yet knew, I cannot tell how,
that I was not their rightful child ; I used to think that I
was some poor orphan — such as indeed I am ! — whom their
kindness had adopted. But that which 1 really was, 1 never
suspected, — far less that I had been the means of separating
my benefactress from such a kinsman — such a friend ! When
I heard that, and remembered all her goodness and all her
sufferings, I thought my very heart would have broken ! She
did not say a word to me, nor I to her. She does not know
that I overheard the conversation ; but all the evening she
was so sad, and so ill — so very, very ill I Oh, if you could
but have seen her pale face and have heard how she sighed !
I could not bear it ; so as]|^soon as it was light I slipped out of
the house, and ran up to the Dairy Farm to consult Giles
Cousins and his dame, who have been very kind to me, and
who would, I knew, prevent my acting wrongly when I most
wished to do right, as a young girl without the advice of her
elders might do. They both agreed with me, that it was my
plain duty to remove the cause of discord between two such
near and dear relations by going to service ; and happily, pro-
videntially, Mrs. Cousins’s sister, who is cook in a clergyman’s
family, had written to her to look out for some young person
to wait on her mistress’s two little girls, walk out with them,
and teach them to read and spell. Mrs. Cousins wrote imme-
diately, and all is settled. Her husband — oh, how kind
they have been ! — her good generous husband has advanced
the money wanting for the journey and some needful trifles,
and won’t hear of my paying him out of my wages ; — but
God will reward him ! ” pursued poor Hester, again bursting
into grateful tears : God only can reward such goodness !
He is even going with me to the very house. I sleep to-night at
the Dairy Farm, and we set off to-morrow morning ; — Mrs.
Kinlay, who knows nothing of my intentions, imagining only
that 1 am going to assist Mrs. Cousins in some needlework.

270

HESTER.

Ohj what a thing it was to see her for the last time^ and not to
dare to say farewell ! or to ask her to bless me ; or to pray for
her on my bended knees^ and bid God bless her for her good-
ness to the poor orphan. What a thing to part from such a
friend for ever, as if we were to meet to-morrow ! But it is
right, I am sure that it is right — my own internal feelings
tell me so. And you must go to her before she misses me,
and bring her home to your house ; and in the full happiness
of such a reconciliation, smaller sorrows will be lost. And you
must tell her that I shall be very comfortable, very safe, for I
am going to good people, with whom it will by my own fault
if I do wrong ; and that in knowing her to be happy, I shall
find happiness. Will you condescend, sir, to tell her this ? and
to pardon me for this intrusion ? I could not steal away like
a thief — I could not write, for I tried ; and besides, there
was only you that could comfort Mrs. Kinlay for the loss of
one to whom she has been as kind as if she were her born
daughter. O, sir, tell her, I beseech you, that the poor
Hester is not ungrateful ! If I leave her, it is from the truest
and strongest affection," said poor Hester, unconsciously clasp-
ing her fair hands. It is," added she, taking up a volume
which lay open on the table, and which even in her emotion and
excitement had caught the eye of the verse-loving girl — It
is on the principle of these beautiful lines : —

** * I could not love thee, dear, *o well,

Loved I not honour more ! ’

Tell her this, I entreat you ! Tell her "

I shall not tell her a word of this, Hester,” interrupted Mr.
Carlton, taking her hand and drawing her kindly towards him,
•— not a single word ! But you must tell me one thing, must
answer me one question : — You that seem to have a taste for
the rough and the crabbed — a talent for softening the veriest
churls, — do you think now in your little heart that you can
ever like me half as well as Giles Cousins ? "

Oh, sir !" ejaculated Hester hopefully, yet doubtingly.
Can you forgive me ? ” added Mr. Carlton more seriously ;
can you pardon the foolish and wicked prejudice for which I
can never forgive myself.'^ I believe that you can, and that
you will : and instead of setting off to this place of yours to-
morrow morning, we must send your good friend Giles to

HESTER.

271

make your excuses ; and you must make my peace with Eliza-
beth, and we must all go together to Cranley Park. And here
is Romeo knocking to be let in, and jumping and skipping as
if he were conscious that his best friend was come home. I
must give Romeo to you, Hester; for he has given you the best
part of him, that loving heart of his, long ago. And now,
my dear little faithful girl, we must go to poor Elizabeth.
To think of her having taught you to love the poetry of
Richard Lovelace!”

Six weeks after this interview, Hester and Romeo, two of
the happiest creatures in existence, w^ere tripping gaily along a
pathway which led from the fine mansion of Cranley Hall to
a beautiful cottage at the edge of the picturesque and richly
wooded park. It was the day famous for the ancient sports
and customs of England — the lovely May-day; and the
green earth and brilliant sky, the light air and the bright sun-
shine, were such as to realise the most enchanting descriptions
of the old poets. The young grass was studded with cowslips,
and cuckoo-flowers, and the enamelled wild hyacinth ; and the
thickets no less richly set with the fragile wood-anemone, the
elegant wood-sorrel, the brightly- coloured wood -vetch, and the
fragrant wood-roof. The bright green beeches with their
grey and shining bark, and the rich brown foliage and rugged
trunks of the oaks, set off the old magnificent thorns, whose
long garlands of pearly blossoms scented the very air ; huge
horse-chestnuts, with their pyramidal flowers, were dispersed
amongst the chase-like woodlands ; and two or three wild
cherries, of the size and growth of forest- trees, flung their
snowy blossoms across the deep blue sky. A magnificent
piece of water, almost a lake, reflected the beautiful scenery
by which it was surrounded, — the shores broken into woody
capes and lawny bays, in which the dappled deer lay basking,
listening, as it seemed, to the concert of nightingales, whose
clear melody filled the air.

All spoke of affluence, of taste, of innocent enjoyment
To breathe that fragrant air, to gaze on that lovely landscape,
w'as to Hester unmingled happiness. She bounded on gay as
the pretty favourite who frolicked around her, her sweet face
radiant with pleasure, and her melodious voice bursting into
spontaneous quotations of the thousand exquisite verses which
the spring-loving poets, from Chaucer to Milton, have conse-
crated to the merry month of May.

HESTER.

272

One chant of the season particularly haunted her, and
would not go out of her head, although she repeated it over
and over purely to get rid of it, — the charming little poem
from The Paradise of Dainty Devices,” of which this is the
burden : —

I “ When May is gone, of all the year i

The pleasant time is past”

Now it was with this burden that Hester quarrelled.

‘ When May is gone, of all the year
The pleasant time is past,’ ”

quoth Hester. — ^^But th^ is a story, is it not, Romeo?”
added she : at- least, I am sure it cannot be true at Cranley ;
for June will have roses and lilies, and strawberries, and hay-
making,” continued Hester. And then relapsing into her
ditty, '

“ ‘ May makes the cheerful hue — ’

I won’t think of that pretty story-telling song, — shall I
Borneo? June will have roses and lilies; July will have
jessamine and myrtle,’’ said Hester. And then again the
strain came across her —

« ‘ May pricketh tender hearts,

Their warbling notes to tune.

Full strange it is ’

There is nothing so strange as the way in which these lines
haunt me,” pursued poor Hester : —

” * When May is gone, of all the year
The pleasant time is past.’

One would think,” added she to herself, that I was
spell-bound, to go on repeating these verses, which, pretty as
they are, have no truth in them ; for at Cranley all times and
all seasons, spring, summer, autumn, winter, must be pleasant.
O what a sweet place it is ! and what happiness to live here
with dear, dear Mrs. Kinlay, and dear Mr. Carlton ! and to see
her so well and cheerful, and him so considerate and kind ! —
80 very kind ! Oh, how can I ever be sufficiently thankful for
such blessings ! ” thought Hester to herself, pausing and clasp-
ing her hands, while the tears ran gently down her fair cheeks
in the energy of her tender gratitude ; and the May-day verses
were efiectu^ly banished from her mind by the stronger im-

HESTER.

27s

pulse of affectionate feeling. How can I ever be half thank-
ful enough, or take half enough pains to please one who seems
to have no wish so much at heart as that of pleasing me ? Oh,
how happy I am ! — how thankful I ought to be ! ” thought
Hester, again walking on towards the beautiful rustic building
which she had now nearly reached ; the slightest wish
cannot pass through my mind, but somehow or other Mr.
Carlton finds it out, and it turns into reality — as if 1 had the
slaves of the lamp at command, like Aladdin ! This Dairy-
house, now ! I did but say how much I Uked the old one at
Belford, and here is one a thousand times prettier than that !
But I shall not like this better, beautiful as it is, — no ! nor so
well,” thought the grateful girl for here will be no Giles
Cousins with his good wife to welcome me as they used to do
there, and contrive a hundred ways to cheat me into taking the
gifts they could ill spare themselvt^s. Dear Giles Cousins ! —
he, that was called so crabbed, and who was so generous, so
delicate, so kind ! — Dear, dear Giles Cousins 1 how glad he
would be to see me so happy ! , I wonder what I can send
him, dear old Giles I Oh, how I should like to see him ! ”
This train of thought had brought Hester to the rustic
porch of the Dairy-house, which was, as she had said, an
enlarged and improved copy of that at Belford, constructed
with the magical speed which wealth (the true lamp of
Aladdin) can command, to gratify a fancy which she had ex-
pressed on her first arrival at Cranley Park. Filled with
grateful recollections of her good old friend, Hester reached the
porch, and looking up to admire the excellent taste displayed
in its construction, she saw before her — could she believe her
eyes ? — the very person of whom she had been thinking, Giles
Cousins himself, with a smile of satisfaction softening his
rugged countenance, his good wife peeping over his shoulder,
and Mr. Carlton and Mrs. Kinlay in the back-ground, delighted
witnesses of the joyful meeting. He clasped her in his arms,
and kissed her as he would have kissed the daughter whom he
fancied she resembled ; and then, seized with a sudden re-
collection of the difference of station, he begged pardon, and
let her go. ’

Oh, Master Cousins ! ” cried Hester, still retaining his
hard rough fist, and pressing it between her delicate hands ;
dear Master Cousins ! how very, very glad I am to iee you

T

274

PESTER.

and your good dame ! It was the only wish 1 had in the
world. Oh, I shall be too happy ! And you are come to
stay ? — I knoW you are come to stay ! *'

To be sure I be, miss/’ responded honest Giles : come
to stay till you be tired of me ; — come for good.”

Oh, it is too much happiness ! ” exclaimed Hester.

How strange it is, that as soon as a wish passes through my
mind, Mr. Carlton sees it, and makes it come to pass. Oh, I
shall be too happy ! ” cried poor Hester, the tears chasing each
other over cheeks glowing like maiden-roses ; 1 shall be too

happy ! and I never can be thankful enough ! Was ever any
one half so happy before? — did ever any one deserve such
happiness ? ” exclaimed Hester, as, her tears flowing faster
and faster, she flun^ herself into Mr. Carlton’s arms. ^

Note. — That that beautiful race of dogs, the Italian grey-
hound, is susceptible of a personal partiality distinct from the
common attachment of a dog to its master — a preference that
may almost be called friendship, I have had a very pleasant
and convincing proof in my own person. Several years ago I
passed some weeks with a highly-valued friend, the wife of an
eminent artist, in one of the large, old-fashioned houses in
Newman-street — a house so much too large for their smaU
family, that a part of it was let to another, and a very interest-
ing couple, a young artist and his sister, just then rising into
the high reputation which they have since so deservedly sus-
tained. The two families lived with their separate establish-
ments in this roomy and commodious mansion on the best
possible terms of neighbourhood, but as completely apart as if
they had resided in different houses ; the only part which they
shared in common being the spacious entrance-hall and the
wide stone staircase : and on that staircase 1 had the happiness
of forming an acquaintance, which soon ripened into intimacy,
with a very beautiful Italian greyhound belonging to the
young painter and his sister.

I, who had from childhood the love of dogs, which is some-
times said to distinguish the future old maid, was enchanted
with the playful and graceful creature, who bounded about the
house with the elegance and sportiveness of a tame fawn, and
omitted no opportunity of paying my court to the pretty and
gentle little animal ; whilst Romeo (for such was his name

HESTER.

275

also) felt, with the remarkable instinct which dogs and children
so often display, the truth of my profession^ the reality and
sincerity of my regard, and not only returned my caresses with
interest, but showed a marked preference for my society;
would waylay me in the hall, follow me up stairs and down,
accompany me into my friend’s drawing-room, steal after me
to my own bedchamber, and, if called by his master and
mistress, would try to entice me into their part of the domicile,
and seem so glad to welc6me me to their apartments, that it
furnished an additional reason for my frequent visits to those
accomplished young people.

In short, it was a regular flirtation ; and when I went
away, next to the dear and excellent friends whom I was
leaving, I lamented the separation from Romeo. Although I
had a pet dog at home, (when was I ever without one?) %nd
that dog affectionate and beautiful, I yet missed the beautiful
and affectionate Italian greyhound. And Romeo missed me.
My friends wrote me word that he wandered up the house
and down ; visited all my usual haunts ; peeped into every
room where he had ever seen me ; listened to every knock ; and
was for several days almost as uneasy as if he had lost his own
fair mistress.

Two years passed before I again visited Newman-street ;
and then, crossing the hall in conversation with my kind
hostess, just as I reached the bottom of the staircase I heard^
first a cry of recognition, then a bounding step, and then,
almost before I saw him, with the speed of lightning Romeo
sprang down a w^hole flight of stairs, and threw himself on
my bosom, trembling and quivering with delight, and nestling
his delicate glossy head close to my cheek, as he had been ac-
customed to do during our former intercourse.

Poor, pretty Romeo ! he must be dead long ago ! But Mr.
John Hay ter may remember, perhaps, giving me a drawing
of him, •ailing a wreath of roses in front of an antique vase ; —
a drawing which would be valuable to any one, as it combines
the fine taste of one of our most tasteful painters with the
natural grace of his elegant favourite ; but which, beautiful as
it is, I value less as a work of art than as a most faithful and
characteristic portrait of the gentle and loving creature, whom
one must have had a heart of stone not to have loved after such
a proof of affectionate recognition,

T 2

276

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

There is a fashion in every thing — more especially in every
thing feminine, as we luckless wearers of caps and petticoats
are, of all other writers, bound to allow : the very faults of
the ladies (if ladies can have faults), as well as the terms by
which those faults are distinguished, change with the clianging
time. The severe but honest puritan of the Commonwealth
was succeeded by the less rigid, but probably less sincere
prq^e, who, from the Restoration to George the Third’s day,
seems, if we may believe those truest painters of manners, the
satirists and the comic poets, to have divided the realm of
beauty with the fantastic coquette — L* Allegro reigning over
one half of the female world, II Pensieroso over the other.

With the decline of the artificial comedy, these two grand
divisions amongst women, which had given such life to the
acted drama, and had added humour to the prose of Addison
and point to the verse of Pope, gradually died away. The
Suspicious Husband of Dr. Hoadly, one of the wittiest and
most graceful of those graceful and witty pictures of manners,
which have now wholly disappeared from the comic scene, is,
I think, nearly the last in which the characters are so dis-
tinguished. The wide-reaching appellations of prude and
coquette, the recognised title, the definite classification, the
outward profession were gone, whatever might be the case
with the internal propensities ; and the sex, somewhat weary
it may be, of finding itself called by two names, neither of
them very desirable, the one being very disagreeable and the
other a little naughty, branched off into innumerable sects,
with all manner of divisions and sub-divisions, and flas con-
trived to exhibit during the last sixty or seventy years as great
a variety of humours, good or bad, and to deserve and obtain
as many epithets (most of them sufficiently ill-omened), as its
various and capricious fellow-biped called man.

Amongst these epithets were two which I well remember
to have heard applied some thirty years ago to more than one
fair lady in the good town of Belford, but which have now

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY. 277

passed away as completely &s their disparaging predecessors,
coquette and prude. The words of fear " in question were
satirical ” and sentimental.” With the first of these sad
nicknames we have nothing to do. Child as I was, it seemed
to me at the time, and I think so more strongly on recollec-
tion, that in two or three instances the imputation was wholly
undeserved ; that a girlish gaiety of heart on the one hand,
and a womanly fineness of observation on the other, gave rise
to an accusation which mixes a little, and a very little clever-
ness, with a great deal of ill nature. But with the fair sati-
rist, be the appellation true or false, we have no concern ; our
business is with one lady of the class sentimental, and with
one, and one only, of those adventures to which ladies of that
class are, to say the least, peculiarly liable.

Miss Selina Savage (her detractors said that she was chris-
tened Sarah, founding upon certain testimony, of I know not
what value, of aunts and godmothers ; but I abide by her
own signature, as now lying before me in a fine slender Italian
hand, at the bottom of a note somewhat yellow by time, but
still stamped in a French device of pcnsces and soucis, and
still faintly smelling of attar of roses ; the object of the said
note being to borrow Mr. Pratt’s exquisite poem of Sym-
pathy,”)— Miss Selina Savage (I hold by the autograph) was
a young lady of doubtful age ; there being on this point also
a small variation of ten or a dozen years between her own
assertions and those of her calumniators ; but of a most sen-
timental aspect (in this respect all were agreed) ; tall, fair,
pale, and slender, she being so little encumbered with flesh
and blood, and so little tinted with the diversity of colouring
thereunto belonging, — so completely blonde in hair, eyes, and
complexion, that a very tolerable portrait of her might be cut
out in white paper, provided the paper were thin enough, or
drawn jn chalks, white and black, upon a pale brown ground.
Nothing could be too shadowy or too vapoury ; the Castle
Spectre, flourishing in all the glory of gauze drapery on the
stage of Drury Lane — the ghosts of Ossian made out of the
mists of the hills — were but types of Miss Selina Savage.
Her voice was like her aspect, — sighing, crying, dying ; and
her conversation as lachrymose as her voice : she sang sen-
timental songs, played sentimental airs, wrote sentimental
letters, and read sentimental books ; has given away her parrot

T S

278

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

for laughings and turned off Her footboy for whistling a
country-dance. ^

The abode of this amiable damsel was a small neat dwelling,
somewhat inconveniently situated, at the back of the Holy
Brook, between the Abbey Mills on the one side and a great
timber-wharf on the other, with the stream running between
the carriage-road and the house, and nothing to unite them
but a narrow foot-bridge, which must needs be crossed in all
weathers. It had, however, certain recommendations which
more than atoned for these defects in the eyes of its romantic
mistress : three middle-sized cypress-trees at one end of the
court ; in the front of her mansion two-well grown weeping
willows ; I an address to Holy Brook Cottage,” absolutely
invaluable to such a correspondent, and standing in most ad-
vantageous contrast with the streets, terraces, crescents, and
places of which Belford was for the most part composed ; and
a very fair chance of excellent material for the body of her
letters by the abundant casualties and Humane Society cases
afforded by the footbridge — no less than one old woman,
three small children, and two drunken men having been
ducked in the stream in the course of one winter. Drowning
would have been too much of a good thing ; but of that, from
the shallowness of the water, there was happily no chance.

Miss Savage, with > two quiet, orderly, lightfooted, and soft-
spoken maidens, had been for some years the solitary tenant
of the pretty cottage by the Holy Brook. She had lost her
father during her early childhood ; and the death of her
mother, a neat quiet old lady, whose interminable carpet-
work is amongst the earliest of my recollections — I could
draw the pattern now, — and the absence of her brother, a
married man with a large family and a prosperous business,
yrho resided constantly in London, — left the fair Selina the
entire mistress of her fortune, her actions, and her residence.
That she remained in Belford, although exclaiming against
the place and its society — its gossiping morning visits and its
'evening card-parties, as well as the general want of refinement
amongst its inhabitants — might be imputed partly perhaps to
habit, and an aversion to the trouble of moving, and partly to
a violent friendship between herself and another damsel of the
same class, a good deal younger and a great deal sillier, who
lived two streets off, and whom she saw every day and wrote
to every hour.

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY. 279

Martha^ or, as her friend chose to call her, Matilda Max-
well, was the fourth or fifth daughter of'« spirit merchant in
the town. Frequent meetings at the circulating library in-
troduced the fair ladies to each other, and a congeniality of
taste brought about first an acquaintance, and then an inti-
macy, which difference of station (for Miss Savage was of the
highest circle in this provincial society, and poor Martha was
of no circle at all), only seemed to cement the more firmly.

The Maxwells, flattered by Selina’s notice of their daughter,
and not sorry that that notice had fallen on the least useful
and cheerful of the family — the one that amongst all their
young people they could the most easily spare, put her time
and her actions entirely into her own power, or rather into
that of her patroness. Mr. Maxwell, a calculating man of
business, finding flirtation after flirtation go off without the
conclusion matrimonial, and knowing the fortune to be con-
siderable, began to look on Matilda as the probable heiress ;
and except from her youngest brother Frank, a clever but
unlucky schoolboy, who delighted in plaguing his sister and
laughing at sentimental friendships, this intimacy, from which
all but one member was sedulously excluded, was cherished
and promoted by the whole family.

Very necessary was Miss Matilda at the Holy Brook Cot-
tage. She filled there the important parts of listener, adviser,
and confidant ; and filled them with an honest and simple-
hearted sincerity which the most skilful flatterer that ever
lived would have failed to imitate. She read the same books,
sang the same songs, talked in the same tone, walked with
the same air, and wore the same fashions ; which upon her,
she being naturally short and stout, and dark-eyed and rosy,
had, as her brother Frank told her, about the same effect that
armour similar to Don Quixote’s would have produced upon
Sancho Panza.

One of her chief services in the character of confidant was
of course to listen to the several love passages of which since
she was of the age of Juliet, her friend’s history might be
said to have consisted. How she had remained so long un-
married might have moved some wonder, since she seemed
always immersed in the passion which leads to such a con-
clusion : but then her love was something like the stream that
flowed before her door — a shallow brooklet, easy to slip into,
T 4f

280

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

and easy to slip out of. From two or three imprudent en-
gagements her brother had extricated her ; and from one, the
most dangerous of all, she had been saved by her betrothed
having been claimed the week before the nuptials by another
wife. At the moment of which we write, however, the fair
Selina seemed once more in a fair way to change her name.

That she was fond of literature of a certain class, we have
already intimated ; and, next after Sterne and Rousseau, the
classics of her order, and their horde of vile imitators, whether
sentimental novelists, or sentimental essayists, or sentimental
dramatists, she delighted in the horde of nameless versifiers
whom Gifford demolished; in other words, after bad prose
her next favourite reading was bad verse ; and as this sort of
verse is quite as easy to write as to read — I should think of the
two rather easier — she soon became no inconsiderable perpe-
trator of sonnets without rhyme, and songs without reason ; and
elegies, by an ingenious combination, equally deficient in both.

After writing this sort of verse, the next step is to put it
in print ; and in those days (we speak of above thirty years
ago), when there was no Mrs. Hemans to send grace and
beauty, and purity of thought and feeling, into every corner
of the kingdom — no Mary Howitt to add the strength and
originality of a manly mind to the charm of a womanly fancy,
— in those days the Poet’s Corner of a country newspaper was
the refuge of every poetaster in the county. So intolerably
bad were the acrostics, the rebuses, the epigrams, and the
epitaphs which adorned those asylums for fugitive pieces,
that a selection of the worst of them would really be worth
printing amongst the Curiosities of Literature. A less vain
person than Miss Selina Savage might have thought she did

the H shire Courant ” honour in sending them an elegy

on the death of a favourite bullfinch, with the signature
Eugenia.’'

It was printed forthwith, read with ecstatic admiration by
the authoress and her friend, and with great amusement by
Frank Maxwell, who, now the spruce clerk of a spruce at-
torney, continued to divert himself with worming out of his
simple sister all the secrets of herself and her friend, and was
then unfair enough to persecute the poor girl with the most
unmerciful ridicule. The elegy was printed, and in a fair
way of being forgotten by all but the writer, when in the next

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

28

number of the Courant ” appeared a complimentary sonnet
addressed to the authoress of the elegy, and signed “ Orlando/’

Imagine the delight of the fair Eugenia ! She was not in
the least astonished, — a bad and inexperienced writer never
is taken by surprise by any quantity of praise ; but she was
ciiarmed and interested as much as woman could be. She
answered his sonnet by another, which, by the by, contained,
contrary to Boileau’s well-known recipe, and the practice of
all nations, a quatrain too many. He replied to her rejoinder;
compliments flew thicker and faster ; and the poetical cor-
respondence between Orlando and Eugenia became so tender,

that the editor of the H shire Courant ” thought it only

right to hint to the gentleman that the post-office would be a
more convenient medium for his future communications.

As this intimation was accompanied by the address of the
lady, it was taken in very good part ; and before the publica-
tion of the next number of the provincial weekly journal,
Miss Savage received the accustomed tribute of verse from
Orlando, enveloped in a prose epistle, dated from a small town
about tliirty miles off, and signed Henry Turner.”

An answer had been earnestly requested, and an answer
the lady sent ; and by return of post she recieived a reply,
to whicli she replied with equal alertness ; then came a love-
letter in full form, and then a petition for an interview ; and
to the first the lady answered anything but No ! and to the
latter she assented.

The time fixed for this important visit, it being now the
merry month of May, was three o’clock in the day. He had
requested to find her alone ; and accordingly by one, p. m., the
liad dismissed her faithful confidante, promising to write to
her the moment Mr. Turner was gone — had given orders to
admit no one but a young gentleman who sent in his visiting
ticket (such being the plan proposed by the innamorato), and
began to set herself and her apartment in order for his recep-
tion ; she herself in an elegant dishabille, between sentimental
and pastoral, and her room in a confusion equally elegant, of
music, books, and fiowers ; Zimmermann and Lavater on the
table ; and one of those dramas — those tragSdies bourgeoises,
or comedies larmoyantes, which it seems incredible that Beau-
marchais, he that wrote the two matchless plays of Figaro,
could have written — in her hand.

28£

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

It was hardly two o'clock, full an hour before his time,
when a double knock was heard at the door ; Mr. Turner’s
card was sent in, and a well-dressed and well-looking young
man ushered into the presence of the fair poetess. There is
no describing such an interview. My readers must imagine
the compliments and the blushes, the fine speeches on either
side, the long words and the fine words, the sighings and the
languishments. The lady was satisfied ; the gentleman had
no reason to complain ; and after a short visit he left her,
promising to return in the evening to take his coffee with
herself and her friend.

She had just sat down to express to that friend, in her
iaccustomed high-flown language, the contentment of her
heart, when another knock was followed by a second visiting
ticket. Mr. Turner again ! Oh ! I suppose he has re-
membered something of consequence. Show him in.”

And in came a second and a different Mr. Turner ! 1
* The consternation of the lady was inexpressible ! That of
the gentleman, when the reason of her astonishment was ex-
plained to him, was equally vehement and flattering. He
burst into eloquent threats against the impostor who had as-
sumed his name, the wretch who had dared to trifle with such
a passion, and such a ladye-love; and being equally weU-
looking and fine-spoken, full of rapturous vows and ardent
protestations, and praise addressed equally to the woman and
the authoress, conveyed to the enchanted Selina the complete
idea of her lover-poet.

He took leave of her at the end of half an hour, to ascer-
tain, if possible, the delinquent who had usurped his name
and his assignation, purposing to return in the evening to meet
her friend ; and again she was sitting down to her writing-
table, to exclaim over this extraordinary adventure, and to
dilate on the charms of the true Orlando, when three o'clock
struck, and a third knock at the door heralded a third visiting
ticket, and a third Mr. Turner ! ! I

A shy, awkward, simple youth, was this, — the real ge-
nuine wooer and poet — bowing and bashful, and with a stutter
that would have rendered his words unintelligible even if time
had been allowed him to bring them forth. But no time was
allowed him. Provoked past all patience, believing herself
the laughing-stock of the town, our sentimental fair one forgot

FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY.

283

her refinement^ her delicacy, her fine speaking, and her affec-
tation ; and calling her maids and her footboy to aid, drove
out the unfortunate suitor with such a storm of vituperation
— such a torrent of plain, honest, homely scolding — that the
luckless Orlando took to his heels, and missing his footing on
the narrow bridge, tumbled head-foremost into the Holy
Brook, and emerged dripping like a river god, to the infinite
amusement of the two impostors, and of Frank MaxweD, the
contriver of the jest, who lay perdu in the mill, and told the
story, as a great secret, to so many persons, that before the
next day it was known half over the place, and was the eventual
cause of depriving the good town of Belford of one of the most
inoffensive and most sentimental of its inhabitants. The fair
Selina decamped in a week.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

286

VOLUME THE THIRD.

BELLES OF THE BALL-BOOM.

No. III.

THE SILVER ARROW.

Amongst the most recent of our county beauties, were a ]^air
of fair young friends, whose mutual attachment, in the best
sense of the word romantic — that is to say, fervent, uncalcu-
lating, unworldly — was smiled at by one part of our little
world, and praised and admired by another ; but, in consider-
ation, perhaps, of the youth and the many attractions of the
parties, pretty indulgently looked upon by all. Never was a
closer intimacy. They rode together, walked together, read
together, sang together, sat in the same pew at church, and
danced in the same quadrille at the assembly. Not a day
passed without some proof of affection de part et d' autre ; and

at the last target day at Oakley But I must not forestall

my story.

Archery meetings are the order of the day. We all know
that in times of yore the bow was the general weapon of the
land ; that the battles of Cressy and of Poictiers were won by
the stout English archers, and the king’s deer slain in his
forests by the bold outlaws Robin Hood and Little John, and
the mad priest Friar Tuck ; that battles were won and ships
taken, not by dint of rockets and cannon-balls, but by the
broad arrow ; and that (to return to more domestic, and there-
fore more interesting illustrations) William of Cloudesley, the
English William Tell, saved his forfeited life by shooting an
apple from his sou's head, at six score paces. But not to
revert to those times, which were perhaps rather too much in
earnest, when the dinner, or the battle, or the life depended on

286

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

the truth of the aim ; and the weapon (to say nothing of the
distance ) would be as unmanageable to a modern ann as the
how of Ulysses ; not to go back to that golden age of archery
and minstrelsy, never since the days of James and Elizabeth,
when the bow, although no longer the favourite weapon, con-
tinued to be the favourite pastime of the middle classes, have
bows and arrows been so rife in this England of ours, as at
the present time. Every country mansion has its butts and
its targets, every young lady her quiver ; and that token of
honour, the prize arrow, trumpery as, sooth to say, it gene-
rally is, is as much coveted and cherished and envied, as if,
instead of a toy for a pedlar’s basket, it were a diamond neck-
lace, or an emerald bracelet.

To confess the truth, I suspect that the whole affair is
rather more of a plaything now-a-days than it was even in the
later time to which we have alluded ; partly, perhaps, because
the ladies, with the solitary exception of Maid Marian, (who,
however, in Ben Jonson’s beautiful fragment, The Sad
Shepherd," of which she is the heroine, is not represented as
herself taking part in the sylvan exercises of her followers,)
contented themselves with witnessing, instead of rivalling, the
feats of our forefathers ; partly, it may be, because, as I have
before observed, the thews and sinews of our modern archers,
let them call themselves Toxopholites fifty times over, would
tug with very little effect at the weapons of Clym of the
Clough, or of Little John, so called because he was the big-
gest person of his day. Or even if a fine gentleman of the
age of William the Fourth should arrive at bending a 200-
pound how, think of his cleaving a willow wand at 400 yards’
distance ! Modem limbs cannot compass such feats. He
might as well try to emulate the achievement of Milo, and
attempt to lift an ox.

Nevertheless, although rather too much of a toy for boys
and girls, and wanting altogether in the variety and interest
of that other great national out-door amusement called cricket,
it would be difficult to find a better excuse for drawing people
together in a country neighbourhood ; an object always desi-
rable, and particularly so in this little midland county of ours,
where, between party squabbles and election squabbles, (affairs
of mere personal prejudice, with which politics have often
nothing to do,), half the gentry live in a state of continual

THE SILVER ARROW.

287

non-intercourse and consequent ignorance of each other’s real
good qualities, and of the genial, pardonable, diverting foibles,
which perhaps conduce as much as more grave, solid excel-
lence, not only to the amusement of society, but to our mutual
liking and regard for each other. A man perfect in thought
and word and deed is a fine thing to contemplate at reverent
distance, like some rare statue on its pedestal; but for the
people who are destined to mix with their fellows in this
work-a-day world — to walk and talk, and eat and drink like
their neighbours, — the greater store of harmless peculiarities
and innocent follies they bring to keep our follies in counte-
nance, the better for them and for ourselves. Luckily there
is no lack of these congenial elements in human nature. The
only thing requisite is a scene for their display.

This want seemed completely supplied by the Archery
Meeting ; an approved neutral ground, where politics could

not enter, and where the Capulets and Montagues of H

shire might contemplate each other’s good qualities, and
he conciliated by each others defects, without the slight-
est compromise of party etiquette or party dignity. The
heads of the contending houses had long ago agreed to differ,
like the chiefs of rival factions in London, and met and
visited, except just at an election time, with as much good
humour and cordiality as Lady Grey meets and visits Lady
Beresford ; it was amongst the partisans, the adherents of the
several candidates, that the prejudice had been found so in-
veterate; and every rational person, except those who were
themselves infected with the prevalent moral disorder, hailed the
prescription of so pleasant a remedy for the county complaint.

Accordingly, the proposal was no sooner made at a country
dinner-party thin it was carried by acclamation ; a committee
was appointed, a secretary chosen, and the pleasant business
of projecting and anticipating commenced upon the spot. For
the next week, nothing could be heard of but the Archery
Meeting ; bows and arrows were your only subject, And Lin-
coln green your only wear.

Then came a few gentle difficulties ; difiiculties that seem
as necessary preludes to a party of pleasure as the winds and
rains of Aprjl are to the fiowers of May. The committee,
composeci, as was decorous, not of the eager sons and zealous
daughters and bustling mammas of the principal families, bu

2S8 BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

of theit cool, busy, indifferent papas, could by no chance be
got together ; they were hay-making, or they were justicing,
or they were attending the House, or they had forgotten the
day, or they had not received the letter ; so that, in spite of
all the efforts of the most active of secretaries, oft Monday four
only assembled out of twenty, on Tuesday two, and on Wed-
nesday none at all.

Then, of the three empty houses in the neighbourhood, on
either of which they had reckoned so confidently, that.they had
actually talked over timr demerits after the manner of bidders at
an auction who intend to buy, the one was point blank refused
to Mr. Secretary's courteous application, on the ground of the
mischievousness of the parties, the danger of their picking the
flowers, and the^certainty of their trampling the grass ; the
second, aft^r having been twenty years on sale, suddenly
found a purchaser just as it was wanted for the Archery Club ;
and the third, which had been for years thirty and odd snugly
going to ruin under the provident care of the Court of Chan- ,
eery — a case of disputed title, — and of which it had been
proposed to take temporary possession as a sort of no, man's
land," found itself most unexpectedly adjudged to a legal
owner by the astounding activity of my Lord Brougham.
The club was its wit's ena, and likely to come to a dissolution
before it was formed, (if an Englishwoman may be permitted
to speak good Irish,) when luckily a neighbouring M.P., a
most kind and genial person, whose tine old mansion was nei-
ther on sale nor in Chancery^ and who patriotically sacrificed
his grass and his flowers sfor the public good, offered his beau-
tiful place, and furnished the Oakley Park Archery Club, not
only with a local habitation,'" but a name."

Then came the grand difficulty of all, the selection of
members. Everybody knows that^ in London the question of
caste. or station— -or, to use perhaps a better word, of gentility
— is very easily settled, or rather it settles itself without fuss
or trouble. In the great city, there is room for everybody.
No one is so high or. so low as to be ivithout his equals ; and,
in the immense number of circles into which society is divided,
he falls insensibly into that class to which his rank, his
fortune^ his habits, and his inclinations are' best adapted.
In the distant provinces, on the other hand,. the division is
equally easy, from a reverse reason. There, the inhabitants

THE SHYER ARROW.

2S9

may almost be comprised in the peasantry, the yeomanry, the
clergy, and the old nobility and gentry, the few and distant
lords of the soil living in their own ancestral mansions, and
mixing almost exclusively with each other, not from airs, but
from the absolute thinness of population amongst the educated
or cultivated classes. But in these small midland counties
close to London, where the great estates have changed masters
so often that only two or three descendants of the original
proprietors are to be found in a circuit ^ twenty miles, and
where even the estates themselves are broken into small
fractions ; — counties where you cannot travel a quarter of a
niile without bursting on some line of new paling enclosing a
belt of equally new plantation, and giving token of a roomy,
commodious, square dwelling, red or white, may suit the
taste of the proprietor, or some cot of spruce g€?htility,*'
verandahed and beporched according to th^ latest fashion,
very low, very pretty, and very inconvenient ; — in these
populous country villages, where persons of undoubted fortune
but uncertain station are as plenty as blackberries, it reqjuires
no ordinary tact in a provincial lord-chamberlain to grant or
to refuse the privilege of the entree.

Perhaps the very finest definition^ of a gentleman in our
own, or in any other language, may be found in Mr. Ward's
^^DeVere*,’’ and in the motto of (I think) the Rutland
family, Manners make the man but our country practice
seems rather to be grounded on tl;ie inimitable answer of the
ineffable Mr. Dubster in Madame D'Arblay's Camilla,”
who, on being asked, What niade him gentleman ? gravely
replied, '^Leaving off business;” or on the still nicer dis-
tinction, so admirably ridiculed by auotfier grea|,feipale writer
(Miss Austen, in “ Emma”), where i Mr. §U^lc}ing, a Bristol
merchant, who had retired from trade spme ei^t dt nme yeits

* ** By a gentleman, we mean not tadraw a fine that wqaM-.heJp^diouy between
high and low, rank and Rubordination, riches and poverty ^Vl^Uitqnction U in the
mind. Whoever is open, loyal, and true i^’whopver of hufnatie and atfable de-
mcapour ; whoever, is honourable in himself, and candid in hi»>jud^ment of others,
and requires no law but his word to make hijn fUIHl an engagement; such a man is
a gentleman, and such a man may be fuun]^ among the tillers pft die earth. But
high birth and distinction for the most part insure the high sentient which is
denied to poverty and the lotver professions. It is hence, and hence only, that the
great claim their superiority ; and hence, what has beep so UcautifUliy said of 4ton«
our, the law pf kingfe, is nb more than truen *

** * It aids and strengthens virtue when it meets her.

And imitates her actions where she is not;’ '

De Fete, vol. ll. page 28,

U

290

BELLES OF THE BALL-BOOM.

back, refuses to visit another Bristolian who had purified him-
self from the dregs of the sugar-warehouse only the Christmas
before.

Now Mr, Dubster’s definition, besides being sufficiently
liberal and comprehensive, had the great merit of being
clear and practicable ; and our good-humoured secretary, a
man of ten thousand, well-born, well-bred, well-fortuned, and
thoroughly well-conditioned, — a man light, buoyant and
bounding, as full -of activity as his favourite blood-horse,
and equally full of kindness, — would willingly have abided
by the rule, and was by no means disinclined to extend his
invitations to the many educated, cultivated, rich, and liberal
persons, whose fathers were still guilty of travelling to London
once a week to superintend some old respectable concern in
Austin Friars, or St. Mary Axe, or even to visit Lloyd’s or
the Stock Exchange. But unluckily the Mr. Sucklings of the
neighbourhood prevailed. Standing ” (to borrow an ex-
pressive Americanism) carried the day, and Mr. Brown,
whose mother eighteen years ago had piuchased the Lawn
on one side of Headingly Heath, had not only the happiness
of excluding his neighbour Mr. Green, who had been settled
at the Grove only a twelvemonth, but even of barring out his
still nearer neighbour Mr. White, who had been established in
the Manor House these half-dozen years. Such, at least, was
the decree passed in full committee ; but it is the common
and rightful fate of over-rigorous laws to be softened in
practicej and Mr. White being a most agreeable, hospitable
man, with a very pleasant clever wife, and the Misses Green
ranking amongst the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood,
somehow or other they eventually got admittance.

These greater difficulties being hiirly surmounted at the
cost of a few affronts on the part of the forgotten and many
murmurs on the part of the omitted, then followed a train of
minor troubles «ibout dinners and crockery, targets and
uniforms, regulations and rules. Drawing up the code of
archery laws, although it seems no mighty effort of legis-
lation, cost our committee almost as much labour as might
b^ gone to the concoction of a second Code Napoleon, or
another Bill for Local Courts ; and the equipment of half the
regiments in the service would have consumed less time and
thought than were wasted on the male and female costumes of

THE SILVER ARROW.

291

the Oakley Park Archery Club. Twelve several dolls were
dressed in white and green of various patterns by the
committee-men and their wives; and such a feud ensued
between Mr. Giles, haberdasher, in King Street, in our dear
town of Belford, and Miss Fenton, milliner, in the Market
Place, each maintaining his and her separate and very various
version of the appointed regulation doll, that nothing but the
female privilege of scolding without fighting prevented that
most serious breach of the peace called a duel. It has been
hinted that the unfortunate third party (that is to say, the
doll) was a sufferer in the fray, the flowers being torn from
her bonnet, the bows from her petticoat, and the pelerine
from her bosom. For this I do not vouch; but for the
exceeding ugliness of the selected regimentals, whether male
or female, I can most conscientiously answer. It required
some ingenuity to invent anything so thoroughly hideous.
The young ladies, in clear muslin and green ribands, arranged
as they thought fit, looked like pretty little shepherdesses ;
but their unfortunate mammas, dressed by Mr. Giles, or Miss
Fenton, according to the pattern of the demolished doll, in
gowns of white chaly, barred like a hussar jacket, with dull
and dismal green, had, from the dim colour of the woollen
material, more the air of a flock of sheep or a bevy of
Carmelite nuns, or a troop of shrouded corpses escaped from
their coffins, or a set of statues like that of the commandant in
Don Giovanni, when seen from behind, or of the figure of
Orcus (the classical Death), as represented in the Alcestis,
when viewed frontwise — than of a group of middle-aged
English ladies, equipped for a party of pleasure.

In spite, however, of josding interests and conflicting
vanities, the day of the archery meeting was anticipated with

great and general delight by the young people in H shire ;

nor were their expectations disappointed. For once in a way,
the full fruition of enjoyment outran the vivid pleasures of
hope. Even as a measure of conciliation, the experiment
succeeded infinitely better than such experiments generally do
succeed. The diverse factions, Neri and Bianchi, Monte^i,
and Capuletd, met at the target-side, looked each other iiAe
face, bowed and curtseyed, smiled and laughed, talked sober
sense and agreeable nonsense, according to their several
inclinations and capacities, and became, by the insensibk

V 2

29^ BELLES OE THE BALL-ROOM.

influence of juxta-position, the mere habit of meeting and
speaking^ almost as good friends as if such a thing as a con-
tested election never had happened^ and never could happen
again : — a happy state of feeling, to which I can only say,
Bato perpetua !

All went well at Oakley. The dinners were excellent
and abundant, and the appetites of the diners so manageable
and complaisant, that, although of the class whose usual din-
ner-hour varies from six to eight, they actually contrived to
eat their principal meal at three, without showing the slightest
symptom of its arriving before it was wanted. The music
was also good, and the dancers untirable ; and although a dose
of pleasuring, a course of shooting, walking, eating, talking,
and dancing, which beginning at one o’clock post meridium,
lasted to rather more than the same hour the next morning,
rivalling in fatigue and duration the excursion of a maid-
servant to a country fair, might naturally be expected to pro-
duce all sorts of complaints amongst our delicate young ladies,
1 did not hear of a single case of illness arising from the
archery meeting. So omnipotent, in the female constitution,
is will.

I myself found an unexpected gratifleation, or rather an
unexpected relief, at the end of the first two meetings. I had
taken a sort of personal aversion to the female regimentals, the
regulation dress of the ladies. The thing affected my nerves ;
1 could not abide the sight of it. But there is some soul of
goodness in things evil.’* The odious chaly was found to
have one capital point : — it wears out sooner than any mate,
rial under the sun, and, difficult to make, takes care very
speedily., to unmake itself by fraying in every direction ; so
that, rent and ragged, tattered and tom, the hideous ladies’
uniform was, at the third meeting, pretty uniformly cast aside,
and female taste again resumed its proper influence over the
female toilet

6o far so good. But, when we English people take a fancy
in our heads, we are apt to let it run away with us ; we hoist

fsay, and cast the ballast overboard. And so it happened
me present instance. After the first two or three meetings,

the genteel population of H shire, men, women, and

children, went archery mad — a lunacy reserved for these par-
ticular dog-days. You should not see a lawn of gentility

TBE SILVER ARROW.

293

without the targets up, or an entrance-hall without bows lean-
ing against every corner, and arrows scattered over every chair.
All other amusements were relinquished. Dinner-parties
were at an end ; pic-nics were no more. Nothing would go
down but private bow-meetings and public target-days.
Dancing, heretofore the delight of a country beauty, was only
tolerated after the archery, because people could not well shoot
by candle-light ; and, as the autumn drew on, even that other
branch of shooting, in which our young sportsmen used to take
such pleasure, entirely lost its charm. Guns were out of
fashion. The ecstatic first of September became a common
day ; and to me, who had watched the prevailing mania with
some amusement, it appeared likely that, unless the birds
should make up their minds to bie killed by bows and arrows,
(as Locksley brought down the wild goose,) a process which
I did not think it probable that they wouhl consent to, the
partridges hereabout might have a fair chance of living on till
the next season.

Archery was the universal subject. Archery songs stood
open on the piano. Archery engravings covered the print-
table. The Archer's Guide" was* the only book worth
opening, and bows and arrows the only topic fit to discuss.
Political economy was no longer heard in the drawing-room,
or the East India question in the dining-parlour ; Don
Carlos and Don Miguel had been ‘‘ pretty fellows in their
day,” but their reign was over. What was a great speech in
the House to the glory of placing three arrows in the target ?
or a great victory to a shot in the gold ? Time was no longer
computed by the calendar ; almanacks were out of fashion.
The whole country-side dated from the Oakley target-days,
as the Greeks from the Olympic Ga'ines.

The little boys and girls, at home for the holidays, caught
the enthusiasm. Bats and balls, and dolls and battledores,
were all cast aside as worthless trumpery : toys, in any other
than the prevailing shape, were an affront.

From the manly Etonian, preferring a bow to a boat, to his
six-year old sister taking her fairy quiver to bed with her, the
whole rising generation enrolled themselves in the ardft|y
band — a supplementary auxiliary legion. They addecHB
enclosure called The Butts” to their baby-houses, and
equipped their dolls with bows and arrows.

u 3

394

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

Trade, as usual, made its advantages of the ruling passion.
The bow business became a distinct branch of commerce ;
yew-trees rose in the market ; and our good town of Belford
was enlivened by no less than three dashing “ archery ware-
houses,” and a new coach called the Dart. Jewellers' shops
glittered with emblematic trinkets ; Cupids fluttered on our
seals and our breakfast-cups ; and the example of a certain
Mr. Dod, a member of the Roxburghe Club, who is recorded
to have been particularly mad on the subject ^‘of Robin Hood
and archery songs,” was, as I have said before, folio wed. by
all H shire.

^ The casualties which occurred in the pursuit of the exer-
cise (as accidents will happen in the best regulated families)
were quite ineffectual in damping the zeal of the professors,
male and female. One bonnet has been struck through the
crown, and a bunch of flowers in another fairly beheaded ;
several fingers (of gloves) have been knocked off ; and one
thumb of flesh and blood slightly lacerated. One gentleman
was shot through the skirts, and two young ladies who were
walking arm in arm were pinned together by the sleeve ;
whilst one fair archeress wounded another in the foot — the
fate of Philoctetes, though not with the arrows of Hercules.

These calamities notwithstanding, the Oakley Park Archery
Meetings continued as prosperous as if they had not been
puffed in the county newspapers. The weather had been very
fine for English weather in the months of June, July, and
August, — that is to say, on the first meeting it had ^en a
hurricane, which had blown down trees and chimneys ; on the
second it had been rather wet and intolerably cold, so that
they were fain to have fires ; and on the third so insufferably
hot, that the spectators sat* fanning themselves under the deep
shadow of the great oak-trees. But what are these evils to a
real genuine enthusiasm ? — drops of water that make the fire
bum brighter: — oil upon the flame. On the whole, the
experiment had succeeded to a miracle. The members had
the pleasure of being crowded at dinner and in the ball-room,
almost as much crowded as at a Quarter Sessions’ dinner,
UE^^ondon rout ; — just the sort of grievance which papas
aniP mammas like to grumble at. And the sons and
daughters found amusement in a different line; — for the
archery-ground proved a capital flirting-place, and hearts were

THB SILVER ARROW.

295

pierced there in reality, as well as in metaphor. For the rest,
arrows were lost, and prizes won, and dinners eaten, and
toasts drunk, and speeches made, and dances danced ; and all
the world at Oakley was merry, if not wise,

So'passed the first three meetings. The fourth, at the very
end of August, was anticipated with growing and still increas-
ing delight by the members of the Club, whose incessant
practice had much sharpened their desire of exhibition and
competition ; and to none was it more an object of delighted
expectation than to Frances Vernon, a shy and timid girl, who
generally shrank from public amusements, but who looked, for-
ward to this with a quite different feeling, since she was to be
accompanied thither by her only brother Horace, a young man
of considerable talents and acquirements, who, after spending
several years abroad, had just returned to take possession of
his paternal mansion in the neighbourhood of Oakley.

Horace and Frances Vernon were the only children of a
very gallant officer of high family and moderate fortune, who
had during his lifetime been amongst the most zealous followers
of one of the two factions (the English Montecchi and Capu*

letti) who divided H shire, and had bequeathed to his son

as abundant a legacy of prejudices and feuds as would have
done honour to a border chieftain of the fifteenth century.
The good generafs prime aversion, his pet hatred, had of
course fallen upon his nearest opponent, his next neighbour,

who, besides the sin of espousing one interest in H shire,

as the general espoused another — of being an uncompromising
whig (radical his opponent was fain to call him), as the gene-
ral was a determined tory — had committed the unpardonable
crime of making his own large fortune as a Russian merchant ;
and, not content with purchasing a considerable estate, which
the general, to clear off old mortgages, had found it convenient
to sell, had erected a huge staring red house within sight of
the hall windows, where he kept twice as many horses, car-
riages, and servants, and saw at least three times as gjtteh
company, as his aristocratic neighbour. If ever one gocmhrt
of man hated another (for they were both excellent 'persons
in their way). General Vernon hated John Page.

u 4*

,SQ6 belles of the ball-room.

John Page^ on his side, who scorned to he outdone in an
honest English aversion by any tory in Christendom, detested
the general with equal cordiality ; and a warfare of the most
inveten^te animosity ensued between them at all places where
it was possible that disputes should be introduced, at vestries
and county meetings, at quarter-sessions, and at the weekly
bench. In these skirmishes the general had much the best of
the battle, ^ Not only was his party more powerful and influ-
ential, btK^his hatred, being of the cold, courtly, provoking
sort that never comes to words, gave him much advantage
over an' adversary hot, angry, and petulant, whose friends had
great difficulty in restraining him within the permitted bounds
of civil disputationr. An ordinary champion would have been
driven from the field by such a succession of defeats ; but our
reformer (so he delighted to style himself) had qualities,
good and bad, which prevented bis yielding an inch. He was
game to the back-bone. Let him be beaten on a question fifty
times, and he would advance to the combat the fifty -first as
stoutly as ever. He was a disputant whom there was no tiring
down.

John Page was of a character not uncommon in his class in
this age and country. Acute and shrewd on many subjects,
he was yet on some favourite topics prejudiced, obstinate,
opiniated, and conceited, as your self-educated man is often
apt to be : add to this that he was irritable, impetuous, and
violent, and we have all the elements of a good hater. On the
other hand, he was a liberal master, a hospitable neighbour, a
warm and generous friend, a kind brother, an affectionate hus-
band, and a doting father: note, beside;*that'he was a square-
made little man, with a bluff but good-humoured countenance,
a bald head, an eagle eye, a Joud voice, and a frank and un-
polished but, by no: means vulgar manner, and^the courteous
reader will have a pretty correct idea of Mr. John Page.

Whether he qr his aristocratic adversary would finally have
gained the mastery at the bench and in the vestry, time only
coiQd have shown. Death stepped in and decided the question.
Tbife general, a spare, pale, temperate man, to whom such a
disrijllllp seemed impossible, was carried off by apoplexy ; leaving
a stony, ^ntlertempq-ed, widow and two children ; a son of
high pron^, who had just left college, and set out on a long
tour through half of Europe and much of Asia; and one

THE SILVER ARROW.

m

(laughter, a delicate girl of fourteen, whom her mother, in
consideration of her own low spirits and declining health, sent
immediately to school.

Six years had elapsed between the general's death and the
date of my little story, when Horace Vernon returning home'
to his affectionate relations, embrowned by long travel, but
manly, graceful, spirited, and intelligent, even beyond theiir
expectations, found them on the eve of the archery mating,
and was prevailed upon by his mother, far too ailing, a Woman
to attend public places, to escort his sister and her chaperone —
a female cousin on a visit at the house — to the appointed,
scene of amusement.

A happy party were they that evening ! Horace, restored to
his own country and his own home, his birthplace, and the
scene of his earliest and happiest recollections, seated between
his mild, placid, gracious mother, a|^ the pretty timid sister,
with whose simplicity and singleness of mind he was enchanted,
seemed to have nothing more to desire on earth. He was,
however, sensible to something like a revulsion of feeling ; —
for, besides being a dutiful inheritor of his father's aversions
and prejudices, he had certain ancient quarrels of his own —
demelh with gamekeepers, and shooting and fishing squabbles,
and such like questions, to settle with Mr. Page ; — he did
certainly feel something like disappointment when, on in-
quiring into those family details which his long absence had
rendered so interesting, he found this their old hereditary
enemy, the man whom he thought it meritorious to hate,
transmuted into their chief adviser and friend. Mr. Page had
put a stop to a lawsuif in which his mother's dower and hi&
sister's small fortune were involved, and had settled the matter
for them so advantageously, that they were better off than be-
fore ; Mr. Page had discovered and recovered the family plate
abstracted by a thieving butler, and had moreover contrived,
to the unspeakable comfort of both ladies, that the thief should
not be hattged ; Mr. Page had sent out to Russia, in a most
advantageous situation, the,old steward's grandson, the pet ^d
prot^e of the family ; Mr. Page had transported to the Swan
River a vautrien cousin, the family plague; Mr. Page^ad
new-filled the conservatory ; Mr. Page had new-clothecrwe
garden wall ; and, finally, as Frances dSlclared with tearf in
her eyes, Mr. Page had saved her dear ixrother’s life by fetch.

298

BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

ing Mr. Brodie in the crisis of a quinsey, ifi a space of time
which^ considering the distance, would seem incredible. This
last assertion completely silenced Horace, who, to the previous
feats, had exhibited a mingled incredulity of the benefits being
really conferred, and an annoyance at receiving benefits from
such a quarter, supposing them to be as great as their glowing
gratitude represented. He said no more; but the feeling
continued, and when poor Frances began to talk of her dear
friend and schoolfellow, Lucy, Mr. Page's only child — of her
talent and beauty, and her thousand amiable qualities — and
when Mrs. Vernon added a gentle hint as to the large fortune
that she would inherit, Horace smiled and said nothing, but
went to bed as thoroughly determined to hate Mr. Page, and
to find his daughter plain and disagreeable, as his deceased
father, the general, could have done for the life of him. I
see your aim, my dear mogfier and sister," thought he to him-
self ; but if my fortune be limited, so are my wishes ; and
1 am not the man to enact Master Fenton to this Anne Page
of yours, or Lucy, or whatever her name may be, though she
were the richest tallow-merchant's daughter in all Russia."

So thinking he went to bed, and so thinking he arose the
next morning — the great morning of the archery meeting;
and his spleen was by no means diminished when, on looking
out of his window, the great ugly red house of his rich neigh-
bour stared him in the face ; and on looking to the other side
of the park, he was differently but almost as unpleasantly
affected by an object on which most persons would have gazed
with delight,— his pretty little siste^, fight and agile as a bird,
practising at the target, and almost dancing with joy as she
lodged an arrow within the gold : — for Horace, just arrived
from the Continent, was not only- quite free from tlie prevail-
ing mania, but had imbibed a strong prejudice against the
amusement, which he considered too frivolous for men, and
too fhll of attitude and display for women, — effeminate in the
one sex, and masculine in the other.

He loved his sister, however, too well to entertain the slight-
est Idea of interrupting a diversion in which she took so much
ple«|iire, and which was approved by her mother and sanc-
tioned by general usage. He joined her, therefore, not intend-
ing to say a word in disapprobation of the sport, with a kind
observation on her proficiency and a prognostic that she wotdd

THE SILVER ARROW. m

win the Silver Arrow,' when all his good resolutions were over-
set by her reply.

Oh, brother said Frances in a melancholy tone, what
a pity it is that you should have stayed all the summer in
Germany, where you had no opportunity of target practice, —
or else you too might have won a silver arrow, the gentlemen's
prize !"

I win a silver arrow ! ” exclaimed Horace, nearly as much
astonished, and quite as much scandalised, as Miss Arabella
Morris when threatened by Poor Jack to be made a first lieu*
tenant ; — I win a silver arrow ! "

Why not ? ” rejoined Frances. I am sure you were
always cleverer than anybody : you always carried away the
prizes at school, and the honours at College ; and 1 don't
suppose you have lost your ambition.**

Ambition ! ** again echoed Hyace, who, a very clever
young man, and by no means devoid of that high quality^
thought of it only in its large and true sense, as the inspiration
which impels the conqueror of nations, or, better still, the
conqueror of arts, the painter, the sculptor, the poet, the orator,
in the noble race of fame. Ambition I ** once again exclaimed
Horace — ambition to make a hole in a piece of canvas !**

Nay, dear brother, surely it is skill."

Skill ! What was the name of the emperor who, when a
man had attained to the art of throwing a grain of millet
through the eye of a needle, rewarded his skill with the present
of a bushel of millet? You remember the story, Frances?
That emperor was a man of sense.”

Oh, brother 1 ** exclaimed Fanchon, shocked in her turn
at this irreverent treatment of the object of her enthusiastic
zeal, — dear brother ! — But, to be sure, they have no archery
on the Continent.”

No,” returned Horace ; they are wiser. Though 1 be-
lieve there are bows — bows made of whalebone — amongst
some of the rudest tribes of the Cossacks. They use the
weapon, in common with other savages ; but wherever civili-
sation has spread, it has disappeared ; and I don’t know,”
pursued this contumacious despiser of the bow, ^^that one
could find a better criterion to mark the boundary of cultivated
and uncultivated, intellectual and unintellectual nations,
their having so far kept up with the stream of improvement as

300

BELLES OF THE BALL-UOOM.

to abandon so ineffectual a mode of procuring their food or
slaying their enemies, and taken to steel and gunpowder.”

Oh, brother, brother 1 ” rejoined the disappointed damsel,
what sad prejudices you have brought home ! I made sure
of your liking an amusement so chivalrous and aristocratic !”

Chivalrous !’* retorted the provoking Horace : why, not
to go to the fountain-head — to Chaucer or to Froissart, —
Scott, who amongst his thousand services to the world has
taught everybody, even young ladies, the usages of by-gone
ages, might have told you that the knights, whether of reality
or of romance, fought with the lance, and in armour, and on
horseback. You should have gotten up a tournament, Fanchon,
if you wished to restore the amusements of the days of chi-
vrfry : and, as to the bow being aristocratic — why, it was the
weapon of thieves and outlaws in its most picturesque use,
and of the common soldien of the time in its most respectable.
The highwayman’s pistols, Fanchette, or the brown musket !
Choose which you will.”

Nay, brother ! I mean in a subsequent age — as an amuse-
ment,” again pleaded poor Fanchette. I am sure, if you
were arguing on my side of the question, you could bring fifty
quotations from the old poets to prove that in that sehse it
was aristocratic. Could not you, now ? Confess ! you who
never forget any thing ! ”

Nay,” retorted her brother, laughing, it is hardly hand,
some to contend with so courteous an adversary : but, without
pleading guilty to the memory of which you are pleased to
accuse me — for. Heaven have mercy upon that man who shall
recollect all that he reads ! — 1 do remember me of a certain
passage very apropos to my line of argument, in a certain
comedy called ‘ The Wits,’ written by a certain knight yclept
William Davenant, who, if old Master Aubrey’s scandal may
be believed (and the gossip of two hundred years ago assumes,
lx it observed, a far more lofty and venerable air than the
dttle-tattle of yesterday), might boast a more than dramatic
j^lationship to the greatest poet that ever lived — William
Shakspeare."* A dashing gallant of those days is promising

* SUx Wllliain Davenant had the luck to be connected with great names and great
eventa. To say nothing of historical matters — with which, however, he was much
n^e4 up — and the kings and queens, and princes amongst whom he lived, he is
reported to have been Shakspeare’s illegitimate son ; and to have been saveil from
execution at Milton's intercession, whose life he had the honour and happiness of

THB SILVER ARROW.

301

his fair mistress to reform : how he kept his word is no con-
cern of minej but thus, amongst other matters saith the gen-
tleman : —

- “ * This deboshod whingard

I will reclaim to comely how and arrows, *

And shoot with haberdashers at Finsbury,

And be thought the grandchild of Adam Bell.*

Now, what do you say to this, fair lady } Tfaith I wish
that for just ten minutes — no longer — I had the memory
which you impute to me, for the sole purpose of smothering
you with quotations to the same effect.**

Well ! it is confined to the gentry now, at all events. You
cannot deny, brother, that it is all the fashion at the present
day.**

Which is tantamount to saying,** responded the stubborn
disputant, that it will be out of fashion to-morrow. Aristo-
cratic indeed! — why, the ^haberdashers* apprentices* will be
shooting in every tea-garden round London before the summer
is over. ^ And what for no .> * as Meg Dods would say : the
recreation is just within reach of their ability, pecuniary and
mental. And here in the country, where everybody that can
command a cow*s grass can set up the butts and shoot with
double ends, as you call them, why, if you expect to keep your
sport to yourself. Miss Fanny, you are mistaken.*'

At all events, Horace, it is classical,** said Miss Fanny,
pushed to her last defence ; and that, to a traveller just from
Greece, ought to be some recommendation. How often have
I heard you say, that ^ Philoctetes * is the second tragedy of
the world, — that which approaches next to Lear in the great
dramatic purpose of rousing pity and indignation ! And what
is * Philoctetes * about, from first to last, but the bow and
arrows of Hercules ? And where in all Homer — all Pope’s
Homer I mean (for I do not know the original — I wish I
did), can we find more beautiful lines than those which de-
scribe Ulysses bending the bow } I will match my quotation
against yours, brother, if you will consent to rest the cause
upon that issue,” continued Frances, beginning to repeat, with

aariDg in return : and he certainly joined Matthew Locke in producing ** Macbeth **
with that grandest music ; help^ Dryden to alter — that is to spoil — The Thm-
peit ; " bad one of the two theatrical patent* i introduced painted scenes, and !i|il
burled close to Chaucer.

BELLES OF THE BALL-BOOM.

gmt animation and gracefulness, the verses to which she had
alluded: —

'* * And now his well.known bow the master bore.

Turn’d on all sides, and view’d it o’er and o’er*:

Lest time or worms had done the weapon wrong,

Its owner absent, and untried so long.

While some deriding : — How he turns the bow!

Some other like it sure the man must know.

Or else would copy : or in bows he deals ;

Perhaps he makes' them —or perhaj^ he steals.

Heedless he heard them, but disdain’d reply ;

The bow perusing with exactest eye.

Then, as some heavenly minstrel, taught to sing
High notes responsive to the trembling string.

To some new strain when he adapts the lyre.

Or the dumb lute refits with vocal wire,

Relaj^es, strains, and draws them to and fro ;

So the great master drew the mighty bow :

And drew with ease. One hand aloft display'd
The bending horns, and one the string essay’d.

From his essaying hand the string let fly

Twang’d short and sharp, like the shrill swallow’s cry.

A general horror ran through all the race, ■

Sunk was each heart, and pale was every face.

Signs ftom above ensued : th’ unfolding sky
In lightning burst ; Jove thunder’d from on high.

Fired at the call of Heaven’s almighty lord.

He snatch’d the shaft that glitter’d on the board:

(Fast by, the rest lay sleeping in the sheath
But soon to fly, the messengers of death.)

Now sitting as he was, the cord he drew,

Through every ringlet levelling his view :

Then notch’d the shaft, release*), and gave it wing ;

The wtszing arrow vanish’d from the string,

Sung on direct and threaded every ring.

The solid gate its fury scarcely bounds ;

Pierced through and through, the solid gate resounds.’ ’*

** Bravo, Fanchon !” exclaimed Horace, as his sister paused,
ludf blushing; at the display into which the energy of her de-
fence had provoked her, — Bravo ! my own dear little sister !
Beautiful lines they are, and most beautifully recited ; and
Pope’s, sure enough — none of Broome’s or Fenton’s botchery.
One may know the handiwork of that most delicate artist, meet
it where on^ will.

" * Or the dumb lute refits with vocal wire.’

Who but the tuneful hunchback of Twickenham could have
pat such words to such a thought ? Then the repetition of
same phrase, like the repetitions in Milton, or the returns
uppn the air in Handel ! Thank you a thousand times, my
Fanny, for such a proof of your good taste. I'll for-
give the archery upon the strength of it."

^*'And the ApoUi-, brother," pursued Fanchon, following

TBB SILVER ABRpW. SQS

up her victory, — ^^was not he an archer^ the Apollo Bd-
videre ? ”

Nay, Fanchon,** replied her brother, laughing, " do not
claim too much; that's uncertain."

“ Uncertain ! How can you say so ? Don’t you remember
the first line of Mr. Milman's poem, — that matchless prize
poem, which Mrs. Siddons is said to have recited in the Louvre,
at the foot of the statue, and in presence of the author ; one
of the finest compliments, as I have heard you say, ever paid
to man or to poet :

“ ‘ Heard ye'the arrow hurtle in the sky ?
llleard ye the dragon monster’s deathful cry ? *

Is not ^ hurtle * a fine word ? And are not these great
authorities ? ”

Sophocles, and Homer, and the Apollo, and Mr. Milman ?
Yes, indeed they are; and under their sanction I give you full
leave to win the Silver Arrow.”

And you will try to win it yourself, Horace ? I do not
mean to-day, but at the next meeting.”

’ No, Fanchon ! That is too much to promise.”

But you will go to the archery witli me ?”

^^Yes; for I wish to see many old friends -—amongst the
rest, the kind and excellent owner of Oakley, and his noble
and charming lady ; and, as I said before, you have my full
permission to bring home the Silver Arrow.”

I should like to do so of all things,” replied Fanchon, in
spite of your contempt ; from which I would lay my best arroyr
that you will soon be converted, and my second-best that I
could name the converter. But my winning the prize is quite
out of hope,” continued the young lady, who, thoroughly un-
lucky in her choice of subjects, had no sooner run to ear^ one
of Horace s prejudices, than she contrived to start another :
‘'there is no hope whatever of my winning the prize ; for though
I can shoot very well here and at the other house——”

" At the other house,” thought Horace, almost starting, as
the staring red mansion, of which he had lost sight during the
archery dispute, and Mr. Page, with all his iniquities, pass^
before his mind’s eye, — "the other house! Are they aa
intimate as that comes to ? ”

"And can even beat Lucy,” pm sued poor Fanchon.

804

BELLES' 0¥* THE BALL-ROOBl.

" Lucy again !” thought her brother.

When we are by ourselves," continued she ; yet before
strangers I am so aWkward, and nervous, and frightened, that
I always fail, I should like dearly to win the arrow, though,
and you would like that 1 should win it, I am sure you would,"
added she; ^^and Lucy says, that if I could but think of
something else, and forget that people were looking at me, she
is sure I should succeed. I do really believe that Lucy would
rather I should win it than herself,^ because she knows it
would give so much pleasure, not only to me, but to mamma."

^‘Nothing but Lucy !" again thought Horace. It seems
as if there were nothing to do in this life but to shoot at a
t&get, and nobody in the world but Miss Lucy Page. — Pray,
Fanchette,” said he aloud, what brought about the recon-
ciliation between Mr. Page’s family and ours ? When 1 left
Ehgland we had not spoken for years."

"Why, very luckily, brother, just after you went abroad,"
rejoined Fanchette, " one of the tenants behaved very unjustly,
and insolently, and ungratefully to mamma ; and when the
steward threatened to punish him for his misconduct, he went
immediately to Mr. Page, knowing that he had been at vari.
auce with our poor father, to claim his patronage and protec-
tion. However, Mr. Page was not the man to see a woman
and a widow, an unprotected female, as he said "

" He might have said, a lady. Miss Fanny !" again thought
the ungrateful Horace

Imposed upon," continued Fanny, " So he came straight
to dear mamma, offered her his best services on this occasion
and any other, and has been our kindest friend and adviser
ever since.”

"I dare say,” said the incorrigible Horace: "and Miss
Lucy was your schoolfellow ! What is she like now ? 1

remember her a pale, sickly, insignificant, awkward girl.
Whom does she resemble } The bluff.looking father, or the
vulgar mamma?"

"You are very provoking brother,” replied poor Fanny,
" and hardly deserve any answer. But she is just exactly like
this rose. She’s the prettiest girl in the county ; every body

aBows that.”

."Yes, a true country beauty^ a full-blown cabbage rose,"
again thought Horace ; who had not condescended to observe

TBE 811.VEB ARROW.

SOS

that the bdf-blown flower which his jsister' had presented to
him^ and which he was at that instant swinging unconsciously
in his hand, was of the delicate maiden blush, made to blow
out of its season (every gardener knows how), by cutting oif
the buds in the spring. fulj-blown blowzy beauty, as

vulgar and as forward as both her parents, encouraging and
patronising my sister, forsooth ! — she, the daughter of a
tallow-merchant ! — just as the father protects my dear mother.
Really,** thought Mr. Vernon, ^^our family is much indebted
to them !’* And with these thoughts in his mind, and con-
tempt in his heart, he set off with Frances to the archery-
ground.

On arriving at the destined spot, all other feelings wefe
suspended in admiration of the extraordinary beauty of tlie
scene. Horace, a traveller of no ordinary taste, felt its charm
the more strongly from the decided English character im-
pressed on every object. The sun was rather veiled than
shrouded by light vapoury clouds, from which he every now
and then emerged in his fullest glory, casting all the magic of
light and shadow on the majestic oaks of the park, — oaks
scarcely to be rivalled in the royal forests, — and on the
venerable old English mansion which stood embosomed amongst
its own rich woodland. The house was of the days of
Elizabeth, and one of the most beautiful erections of that age
of picturesque domestic architecture. Deep bay-windows of
various shapes were surmounted by steep intersecting roofs
and bits of gable ends, and quaint fantastic cornices and tall
turret-like chimneys, which gave a singular grace and lightness
to the building. Two of those chimneys, high and diamond-
shaped, divided so as to admit the long line of sky between
them, and yet united at distant intervals, linked together as it
were by a chain-work of old masonry, might be a study at
once for. the painter and the architect. The old open porch
too, almost a room, and the hall with its carved chimney-piece
and its arched benches, the wainscoted chambers, the oak
staircaites, *the upstair chapel, (perhaps oratory might be the
fitter word,) the almost conventual architecture of some of^the
arched passages and the cloistered inner courts, weie in perfect :
keeping ; and the admirable taste which had abstained fl-oni ?
admitting any thing like modern ornament ws felt by the '
whole party, and by none more strongly than by our fastidious

3€6 BKLLB8 OF THE BALL-ROOM.

traveller. He immediately fell into conversation with Mr.
Oakley, the kind and liberal proprietor of the place, and his
charming lady, (old friends of his family,) and was listening
with interest to his detail of the iniquities of some former
Duke of St. Albans, who, renting the mansion* as being con-
venient for the exercise of his Amction of hereditary grand
falconer, had, in a series of quarrels with another powerful
nobleman (the then Duke of Beaufort), extirpated the moor-
fowl which had previously abounded on the neighbouring
heath, when a startling clap on the shoulders roused his atten-
tion, and that nightmare of his imagination, Mr. Page, stood
before him in an agony of good-will, noisier and more bois.
terous than ever.

Not only Mr. Page, shaking both bis hands with a swing
that almost dislocated his shoulders, but Mrs. Page,, ruddy,
portly, and smiling, the very emblem of peace and plenty, and
Mrs. Dinah Page, Mr. Page’s unmarried sister, a grim, gaunt,
raw-boned woman, equally vulgar-looking in a different way,
and both attired in the full shroud uniform, stood before him.
At a little distance, talking to his sister, and evidently con-
gratulating her on his return, stood Lucy, simply but ex.
quisitely dressed, a light embroidery of oak- leaves and acorns
having replaced the bows which made the other young ladies
seem in an eternal flutter of green ribands ; and so delicate, so
graceful, so modest, so sweet, so complete an exemplification
of innocent and happy youth fulness, that, as Horace turned to
address her and caught his sister's triumphant eye, the words
of Fletcher rose almost to his lips —

** At a rote at fairest.

Neither a bud, nor blown.”

Never was a more instantaneous conversion. He even,
feeling that his first reception had been ungracious, went back

* There it another still more interesting story connected with Oakley. An an-
cestor of tlie present proprietor was lost, bewildered, benighted during some tremen.
dous storm on the heath before alluded to, and, being of delicate health and nervoua
habits, had fairlv given up all hope of reaching his own house alive; when suddenly

the church clock of the neighbouring town of W striking four, ' happened to

Wtke itself heard through the wintry storni, and gave him sufficient intimation of
bis position to guide him safely home. In memory of this interposition, which he
ccmsideced as nothing less than providential, Mr. Oakley assigned forty shillings a
year in pavmcnt of a man to ring a bell at four o’clock every morning in the parish

church of W : and by that tenure the estate is still held. This is literally true.

A circumstance somewhat similar, occurring to the proprietor of Bamborougn Cas-
tle, in Northumberland, is said to have been the cause of the erection of the famous
lignt.faoaie which has warned so many vessels from that dangerous coast

THE SILVER ARROW.

m.

to shake hands over again with Mr. Page, and to thank him ,
for his services and attentions to his mother during his absence ;
and when his old opponent declared with much warmth that
any little use he might have been of was doubly repaid by the
honour of being employed by so excellent a lady, and by the
unspeakable advantage of her notice to his Lucy, Horace really
wondered how he could ever have disliked him.

The business of the day now began — "Much ado about
nothing,'' perhaps — but still an animated and pleasant scene.
The pretty processions of young ladies and nicely-equipped
gentlemen marching to the sound of the bugle from target to
target, the gay groups of visitors sauntering in the park, and
the outer circle of country people, delighted spectators of the
sport, formed altogether a picture of great variety and interest.

Lucy and Frances were decidedly the best shots on the
ground ; and Horace, who was their constant attendant, and
who felt his aversion to the sport melting away, he could not
very well tell how, was much pleased with the interest with
which either young markswoman regarded the success of the.
other. Lucy had, as she declared, by accident, once lodged
her arrow in the very centre of the target, and was as far
before Frances as Frances was before the rest. But Lucy,
although the favourite candidate, seemed less eager for the
triumph than her more timid friend, and turned willingly to.
other subjects.

" You are admiring my beautiful dress, Mr. Vernon, as well
you may," exclaimed she, as she caught his eye resting on her
beautiful figure : " but it is Frances who ought to blush, for
this delicate embroidery is her work and her taste, one of a
thousand kindnesses which she and dear Mrs. Vernon have been
showering upon me during the last six years. She did not act
quite fairly by me in this matter, though ; for she should have
{dlowed me, though I cannot paint with the needle as she does,
to try my skill in copying her beautiful work, — and I will,
against the next meeting, although it will be only displaying
my inferiority. 1 never saw this dress, or had a notion of it,
till last night, when she was forced to send it to be tried on..
You do not know your sister yet !”

" 1 am better acquainted with her than you think 1 am,**
exclaimed Horace. "We have been holding a long argument .
this morning : and nothing, you know, draws out a young lady

X 2

308

BELLES OF THB BALL-BOOM.

like a little contradiction. I must not tell you the subject^ for
you would certainly be on Frances’s side.”

Yes ! certainly I should/’ interrupted the fair lady ; be
the subject what it might — right or wrong, I should take part
with dear Frances. But you must not quarrel with her — no,
not even in jest, — she loves you so, and has so longed for your
return. I doubt your knowing her yet, even although you have
had the advantage of a dispute ; which is, as you say, an
excellent recipe for drawing out a young lady. I do not think
you know half her merits yet — but you will find her out in
lime. She is so timid, that sometimes she conceals her powers
Bnm those she loves best ; and sometimes from mere nervous-
ness they desert her. 1 am glad that she has shot so well to-
day ; for, trifiing as the object is, (and yet it is a pretty English
amusement, an old-fashioned national sport — is it not ?) —
trifling as the object may be, every thing that tends to give her
confidence in herself is of consequence to her own comfort in
society. What a shot was that !” continued she, as Frances’s
arrow lodged in the target, and the bugles struck up in honour
of "a gold” — What a shot I and how ashamed she is at her
own success ! Now you shall see me fail and not be ashamed
of my failure.” And she shot accordingly, and did fail ; and
another round, with nearly equal skill on the part of Frances,
and equal want of it on that of her friend, had reversed their
situations, and put Miss Vernon at the top of the list ; so that
T^hen the company adjourned to their early dinner, Frances
was the favourite candidate, although the two young ladies
were, in sporting phrase, neck and neck.

After dinner, however, when the gentlemen joined the ladies
and the sports recommenced. Miss Page was nowhere to be
found. Mrs. Page, on her daughter being called for, announced
to the secretary that Lucy had abandoned the contest ; and on
being anxiously questioned by Horace and Frances as to the
cause of her absence, she avowed that she could not very well
what was become of her, but that she fancied she was gone
with her father and Aunt Dinah in search of the Ladye Foun-
tain, a celebrated spring, situate somewhere or other in the
seven hundred acres of fir-woods which united the fertile
demesne of Oakley to another fine estate belonging to the same
l^tleman ; a spring which Aunt Dinah had remembered' in
h^ childhood, before the fir-trees wem planted, and had taken

THB SILVER ARROW.

309

a strong fancy to see again* And so Lucy/' pursued Mrs..
Page, has left the archery and her chance of the Silver Arrow,,
and has even run away from Miss Vernon to go exploring the
woods with Aunt Dinah."

She is gone that Frances may gain the prize, sweet creature
that she is !” thought our friend Horace.

Two hours afterwards, Horace Vernon found his way
through the dark and fragrant fir plantations to a little romantic
glade, where the setting sun glanced between the deep red
trunks of the trees on a clear spring, meandering over a bed of
mossy turf inlaid with wild thyme, and dwarf heath, and the
delicate harebell, illumining a figure fair as a wood-nymph,
seated on the fantastic roots of the pines, with Mr. Page on one
side and Aunt Dinah on the other. You have brought me
good news/* exclaimed Lucy, springing forward to meet him ;

Frances, dear, dear Frances, has won the Silver Arrow!"

I have brought you the Silver Arrow for yourself," re-
plied Horace, offering her the little prize token, quite forgetting
how exceedingly contemptible that prize had appeared to him
that very morning ; or, if remembering it, thinking only that
nothing could be really contemptible which gave occasion to so
pretty and so unostentatious a sacrifice of a feather in the
cap of youth.’*

But how can that be, when, even before I declined the
contest, Frances had beaten me ? The prize is hers, and must
be hers. I cannot take it ; and even if it were mine, it would
give me no pleasure. It was her success that was my triumphs
Pray, take the arrow back again. Pray, pray, my dear father,
make Mr. Vernon take the arrow.’*

How am I to make him, Lucy ? ** inquired her father,
laughing.

It is yours, I assure you,” replied I^race ; and Frances
cannot take it, because she has just such another of her own.
Did not you know that there were two prizes ? — one for the
greatest number of good shots, — the highest score, as Mr.
Secretary calls it, which, owing probably to your secession,
has been adjudged to Frances ; and another for the best shot
of all, which was fairly won by you. And now, my dear
Mr. Page, I, in my turn, shall apply to you to make yo^
daughter take the arrow ; and then I must appeal to her to
honour me with her hand for the two first • sets of quadrilles,

X 3

"310 BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

aod as many more dances as she can spare to me during the
evening.”

And the young lady smiled very graciously, and they danced
together half the night.

^‘Well, brother/ asked Frances, as they were returning
home together from Oakley Park, how have you been amused
at the archery meeting?”

“Hem!” ejaculated Horace; “that's a saucy question.
Nevertheless, you shall have the truth. I liked it better than
I expected. The place is beautiful, and the sport, after all,
national and English.”

Then you mean to become an archer ? ”

“ Perhaps I may.”

“ And to win the next Silver Arrow ? ”

“ If I can.”

There's a dear brother ! And how did you like our good
friend Mr. Page ? Did not you find him national and English
also?”

“That's another saucy question, Miss Fanchon,'* again
exclaimed Horace : 5^ but I am in a truth-telling humour. I
liked your good friend exceedingly ; and heartily agree with
him in thinking that the admission of the country people,
through the kindness of Mr. Oakley and Lady Margaret,
mixing the variety, and the crowd, and the animation of a fair
with the elegance of a fete diampetre, formed by far the prettiest
part of the scene. He is very English, and I like him all the
better for so being,” continued Horace manfully. “ And now,
my dear little Fanny, to forestall that sauciest question of all,
which I know to be coming, I give you warning before our
good cousin here, that I will not tell you how I like Mr. Page's
fair daughter until I am in a fair way of knowing how Mr. Page's
fair daughter likes me.”

Thank Heaven ! ” thought Frances ; “ that was all that I
wanted to know.”

'“ And so, ladies both,” added Horace, as the carriage drove
up to the door of the Hall and he handed them put, — “ it
bdng now three o'clock in the morning, I have the honour of
wishing you good-night.”

THE SILVER ARROW.

311

Note* — This little tale of the Archery Ground is longer
than is usual with me, — not for the benefit of its present race
of readers, who may fairly be presumed to have had enough of
the subject in the county newspapers and in country conversa-
tion, but because, if a few stray copies of a trifling book may
be presumed to live for ten or a dozen years, it will then convey
that sort of amusement with which we now and then contem-
plate some engraving of a costume once fashionable, laughing
saucily at our former selves, as we think — Did I really ever
wear such a bonnet ? or such a sleeve ? In proportion to the
popularity of this pretty amusement will be its transiency.
The moment that it becomes common, (and that moment is
approaching fast,) it will pass out of fashion and be forgotten.
Nothing is so dangerous in this country as a too great and too
sudden reputation. The reaction is overwhelming. We are
a strange people, we English, and are sure to knock down our
idols, and avenge on their innocent heads the sin of our own
idolatry.

In the mean while, archery has its day, (and even to have
had its day, when that melancholy change of taste shall arrive,
will be something,) — and it has also a minstrel, of whom it
has more than common cause to be proud. Every body knows
that there is nothing more pleasant than the trifling of those
whos# trifling is merely a relaxation from graver and greater
things. Now, it happens that in these parts — not indeed in
the Oakley Park Club, but in one not a hundred miles distant
— they are lucky enough to possess a person eminent in many
ways, and good-humoured enough ^o have composed for the
amusement of his neighbours one of the pleasantest ballads
that has been seen since the days of Robin Hood. King
Richard and Friar Tuck might have chanted it in the hermit’s
cell, and doubtless would have done so had they been aware
of its existence. 1 cannot resist the temptation of quoting a
few stanzas, in hopes of prevailing on the author (it is printed
for private distribution) to make public the rest It purports
to be the Legend of the Pinner of Wakefield — I presume
(although it is not so stated in the preface) of George-a-
Greene," who held that station, and whose exploits form the
subject of a very pleasant old play. It begins as follows

BELliBS OF THE BALL-KOOM.

“ The Pindar of Wakefield is xny style,

And what I list I write;

’ Whilom a clerk of Oxenforde,

Bui now a wandering wight

When birds sing free in bower and tree.

And sports are to the fore.

With fi^le and ]ong*bow forth I pace,

As Phcebus did of yore.

. ** The twang of both best Ttketh me
By those fair spots of earth,"

’•‘‘Where Chaucer* conn’d his minstrelsy,

Anrr'Alfied drew his birth.

Ahd n^atsoever chance conceit '

Witnin my brain doth light,

It trickleth to my fingers’ ends,

And nc^s I must indite.

“ Even thus my godfather of Greece,

Whose worthy name I bear,

Of a cock, or a bull, or a whale would sing.

And seldom stopp’d to care.

“ * For whoso shall gainsay,’ quoth he,

* My sovereign will and law.

Or carpeth at my strain divine
In hope to sniff some flaw,

Cortes, 1 wreck of the lousie knave
As an eagle of a daw.’

•• Yet whonttoe’er in wrestling ring
He spied to bear him strong,

Or whom he knew a good man and true.

He clapp’d him in a song^r

** Like him, it listeth me to tell *3
Some fytte in former years,

Of the merry men all and yeomen tall
Who were my jovial feres.”

And 80 on to" the end of the chapter.

To illustrate Davenant’s expression as quoted by Horace, I
copy from a very accurate recor^r of the antiquities of the
metropolis an account of Finsbury Fields, in the days when
haberdashers’ apprentices and other city youths resorted to them
for the purpose of archery, — the remote and gorgeous days of
the Maiden Queen.

It is very well known -to every one who is at all acquainted
with the ancient history oi topography of London, that the
northern part of Finsbury Fields — that is to say, from the
present Bunhill Row almost to Islington — was once divided
into a number of large irregular pieces of ground, enclosed by
banks and hedges, constituting the places of exercise for the
city archers. Along the boundaries of each of these fields

* Chaucer, it l» «aid, resided at Donnington Castle : Alfred was bom at Wantage
Hence a clue toutbe locality of the ballad.

THE SILVER ARROW.

srA

were set the various marks for shooting^ formerly knoil^
under the names of targets, butts, prickes, and rovers ; all
which were to be shot at with different kinds ,of arrows.
They were also distinguished by their own respective titles,
which were derived either from their situation, their pro-
prietors, the person by whom they were erected, the name of
some famous archer, or perhaps from some circumstance now
altogether unknown. These names, however, were often suffi-
ciently singular ; for in an ancient map of Finsbury Fields,
yet extant, there occur the titles of Martin’s Monkie,” the
“ Red Dragon,” Theefe in the Hedge,” and the Mercer's
Maid.” Indeed, one of these names, not less remarkable, was
given so late as the year 1746, in consequence of a person,
named Pitfield, having destroyed an ancient shooting-butt,
and being obliged to restore it by order of an act passed in
1632 : the Artillery Company, to which it belonged, jengraved
upon the new mark the significant title of Pitfield*s Repent-
ance.” The general form of the Finsbury shooting-butts was
that of a lofty pillar of wood, carved with various devices of
human figures and animals, gaily painted and gilt : hut there
was also another kind, of which some specimens have remained
until almost the present day. These consisted of a broad and
high sloping bank of green turf, having tall wings of stout
wooden paling, spreading out on each side. Such shooting-
butts, however, were chiefly for the practice of the more inex-
pert archers, and not for those who, like Master Shallow’s
old Double, would have clapt in the clout at twelve score,
and carried you a forehand shaft at fourteen, and fourteen and
a half.” Upon this bank of turf was hung the target, and
sometimes the side paling stretched out so as to form a long
narrow lane for the archers to stand in ; the principal intent
of them being to protect spectators or passers-by from the
danger of a random arrow, or ah upskilful marksman : the
latter, however, if in the ArtiUery CJompany, was not responsible
for any person’s life, ifj previously to letting fly his arrow, he
exclaimed Fast ! ” The marks were erected at various dis-
tances from the shooting-places, some being so near as seventy-
three yards, and others as far distant as sixteen score and two;
though the ancient English bow is said sometimes to have been
effective at so immense a distence as four hundred yards, or
nearly a quarter of a mile. The fields in which these butts were

31 4f BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM.

placed, were, in the time of Elizabeth, a morass, subdivided
‘by so many dikes and rivulets, that the ground was often
new*made where the bowmen assembled, and bridges were
thrown over the ditches to form a road from one field to
another. Like the Slough of Despond^ however, they swal-
lowed so many cart-loads — yea, waggon-loads — of materials
for filling them up, that old Stow once declared his belief to
be, that if Moor Fields were made level with the battlements
of the city wall ^ they would be little the drier, such was the
marshy nature of the ground.

It was in this place that the various troops of archers which
formed the celebrated pageant of the 17th of September, 1583,
assembled previously to that famous spectacle, habited in
those sumptuous dresses by which the bowmen of Elizabeth’s
rei^ were so eminently distinguished. There came Barlow,
Duke of Shoreditch ; Coveil, Marquess of Clerkenwell ; Wood,
the Marshal of the Archers ; the Earl of Pancras ; the Mar-
quesses of St. John’s Wood, Hoxton, Shacklewell, and inany
other excellent marksmen, dignified by similar popular titles,
long since forgotten. There was such glittering of green
velvet and satin, such flapping of the coloured damask ensigns
of the leaders, such displaying of wdoden shields covered with
gay blazonry, such quaintly-dressed masquers, such pageant-
devices of the various London parishes which contributed to
the show — such melodious shouts, songs, flights of whistling
arrows, and winding of horns, — that, as an author of the
time truly says, such a delight was taken by the witnesses
thereof, as they wist not for a while where they were.” But
for those who would enjoy this pageant to perfection, let
them turn over the leaves of Marshal Wood's very rare tract
of ^‘The Bowman’s Glory,” which i really blazed with his
minute description of the dresses and proceedings. Many a
'deed of archery, well befitting the fame of Robin Hood him-
self, was that day recorded upon the Finsbury shooting-butts ;
many of the competitors repeatedly hit the white, and more
than one split in pieces the arrow of a successful shooter.

It is clear from the admirable dialogue between Silence and
Shalow, alluded to above, (and Shakspeare is the best autho-
rity for every thing, especially for English manners,) that in the
days of Elizabeth at least, archery was, as the hero of my little
story truly said, a popular, and not an aristocratic amusement.

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

^15

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

The death of a friend so ardently^ admired, so tenderly beloved,
as Henry Warner, left poor Louis nearly as desolate as he had
been when deprived in so fearful a manner of his early in-
structor, the good Abbe. Bijou, too, seemed again, so far as
his nature permitted, sorrow-stricken ; and Mrs. Duval and
Stephen Lane, both after their several fashions, sympathised
with the grief of the affectionate boy. The fond mothei'
fretted, and the worthy butcher scolded amain ; and this species
of consolation had at first the usual effect of worrying, rather
than of comforting, its unfortunate object. After a while,
however, matters mended. Instead of nursing his depression
in gloomy inaction, as had been the case after his former
calamity, Louis had from the first followed the dying injunc-
tion of his lamented friend, by a strenuous application to
drawing, in the rules of which he was now sufficiently grounded
to pursue his studies with perceptible improvement ; and time
and industry proved in his case, as in so many others, the best
restorers of youthful spirits. His talent too began to be recog-
nised ; and even Stephen Lane had given up, half gnimblingly,
his favourite project of taking him as an apprentice, and did
not oppose himself so strenuously as heretofore to the con-
nection which Mrs. Duval now began to perceive between her
own dream of the pot of gold and Louis’ discovery of the
paint-pot. ^^To be sure," thought honest Stephen, “women
will be foolish and fanciful, even the best of 'em. But I've
noticed, by times, that every now and then one of their silliest
fancies shall come true, just out of contrariness. So it's as
well to humour them : and besides, if as my Margaret thinks.
Madam St. Eloy should be taking a fancy to the boy, it would
be as good as finding a pot of gold in right earnest. Madam
must be near upon seventy by this time. Ay, she was a fine-
grown young lady, prancing about upon her bay pony, when
first I went to live with Master Jackson — and that's fifty
years agone : and she's a single woman still, and has no kin-
dred that ever I heard of ; for her brother, poor gentleman,
left neither chick nor child ; and she must be worth a power
of money, besides the old house and the great Nunnery estate

^ THE YOUKO PAINTER.

IH^ 0^ niottey, and nobody to leave it to but just as she
wWltt ! I scorn le^cy-hunting," pursued the good butcher^
checking and correcting the train of his own thoughts ; but
Imwaomdever, if the old lady should take a liking to Louis,
iArf the might go farther apd fare worse. That's aU 1 shall
mj in the business.**

;^Madam St Eloy was a person of no small consequence in
l^ord, where sh6 spent regularly and liberally the larger part
large income. She lived not in the town, but in an
iancient mansion called The Nunnery, just across the river,
i^Mfeted, it is to be presumed, on the site of an old monastic
establishment, and still retaining popularly its monastic name,
in spite of the endeavours of its Huguenot possessors to sub-
stitute the more protestant title of “ The Place.**

Very harshly must its conventual appellation have sounded
in the ears of the founder of this branch of the St. Eloy family,
a Huguenot refugee of Elizabeth's days, whose son, having
become connected with that most anti-catholic monarch James
the First, by marrying a lady about the person of Anne of
Denmark, and who had been in his childhood the favourite
attendant of Prince Charles, had bequeathed to his successors
all the chivalrous loyalty, the devotion, and the prejudices of a
cavalier of the Civil Wars ; prejudices which, in the person
of their latest descendant, Madeleine de St. Eloy, had been
strengthened and deepened by her having lost, in the course of
one campaign, an only brother and a betrothed lover, when
fighting for the cause of French loyalty in the early part of
the revolutionary war.

This signal misfortune decided the fate and the character of
the heiress of the St. Eloys. Sprung from a proud and stately
generation, high-minded, and reserved, she, on becoming mis-
tress of herself and her property, withdrew almost entirely from
"^the Ordinary commerce of the world, and led, in her fine old
mansion, a life little less retired than that of a protestant nuii.

No place could be better adapted for such a seclusion.
Separated from the town of Belford by the great river, and the
rich and fertile chain of meadows, and from the pretty village,
to which it more immediately belonged, by a double avenue
almost like a grove of noble oaks, it was again defended on the
landward side by high walls surrounding the building, and
leading through tall iron gates of elaborate workmanship into

THE YOUNG PAINTER. 317

a spacious court ; whilst the south front opened into a garden
enclosed by equally high walls on either side^ and bounded by
the river, to which it descended by a series of terraces of
singular beauty, planted with evergreens and espaliers, mixed
with statues and sun dials and vases, and old-fashioned
dowers in matchless luxuriance and perfection.

Nothing could exceed the view of Belford from this terraced
garden. On the one side, the grey ruins of the abbey and
Aeir deep-arched gateway ; on the other, the airy elegance of
the white-fronted terraces and crescents : between these extrenoie
points, and harmonising — toning down, as it were, the one
into the other, the old town so richly diversified in form and
colour, with the fine Gothic towers and tapering spires of the
churches, intermixed with trees and gardens, backed by woody
hills, and having for a foreground meadows alive with cattle,
studded with clumps of oak, and fringed with poplars and
willows, leading to the clear and winding river — the great
river of England, with its picturesque old bridge, and its ever-
varying population of barges and boats. By far the finest view
of Belford was from the terrace gardens of the Nunnery.

Very few, however, were admitted to participate in its
beauties. Miss, or, as she rather choose to be call^, Mrs. St.
Eloy, gradually dropped even the few acquaintances which the
secluded habits of her family had permitted them to cultivate
amongst the most aristocratic of the country gentry, and,
except a numerous train of old domestics and an occasionid
visit from the clergyman of the parish, or her own physician
and apothecary, rarely admitted a single person within her
gates.

Still more rarely did she herself pass the precincts of the
Nunnery. Before the abolition of the races, indeed, she had
thought it a sort of duty to parade once round the course in a
coach thirty years old at the very least, drawn by four heavy’
black horses, with their long tails tied up, not very much younger,
driven by a well-wigged coachmen and two veteran postilions
(a redundancy of guidance which those steady quadrupeds
were far from requiring), and followed by three footmen
mounted on steeds of the same age and breed. But the ces-
sation of the races deprived Belford of the view of this solemn
procession, which the children of that time used to contemplate
with mingled awe and admiration, (the rising generation now-

318

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

'would pYobaVdy be so irreveient as to laugh at such a
End the Nunnery coach, although ihe stud of black
liypgr|<ip;|ras s kept up, and hardly issued from the court-yard,
t;|^|M^9ccaiaottally to do honour to some very aristocratic high
or to attend the funeral of a neighbouring nobleman ;
m parish church which Mrs. St. Eloy regularly attended being
sp near, that nothing but age or infirmity could have suggested
the use of a carriage.

Of age or infirmity the good lady, in spite of Stephen's cal-
culation, bore little trace. She was still a remarkable fine
woman, with a bright eye, a clear olive complexion, and a
slender yet upright and vigorous figure. Little as she mingled
in society, 1 have seldom known a person of her age so much
admired by either sex. The ladies all joined in praising her
old-fashioned, picturesque, half-mourning costume, never
changed since first assumed in token of grief for the loss of
her lover, and the stately but graceful courtesy of her manner
on any casual encounter ; whilst the gentlemen paid her the
less acceptable and more questionable compliment of besieging
her with offers of marriage, which, with a characteristic absence
of vanity, she laid entirely to the score of the Nunnery Estate.
It was said that three in one family, a father and two sons —
aU men of high connections, and all in one way or another as
much in want of money as any three gentlemen need be — had
made their proposals in the course of that summer during
which she completed her thirteenth lustrum.

Certain it is, that the lapse of time by no means diminished
her matrimonial qualifications in the eyes of such speculating
bachelors as were looking about for a bon parti; and it is at
least equally certain, that no woman was ever less likely to fall
into the nuptial trap than Mrs. St. Eloy. She was protected,
from the danger by every circumstance of character and of.
aUuation : by her high notions of decorum and propriety — by
real purity of mind — by the romance of an early attachment
— by the pride of an illustrious descent — by her long and
unbroken seclusion, and by the strong but minute chains of
habit with which she had so completely environed herself, that
the breach of etiquette in a German court would not*have been
more striking than any infraction of the rules of this maiden
household.

All went as if by clock-work in the j^Nunnery. At eight.

THE YOUNG PAINTER*

319

Mrs. St. £loy rose, and proceeded to a room called the chapclj^
built on the consecrated ground of the convent churchy
Mrs. Dorothy Adams, an ancient spinster who filled a post u».
the family between companion and lady's-maid, read prayers
to the assembled servants. Then they adjourned to the break-
fast'parlour, where, on a small japanned table, and in cups of
pea-green china not much larger than thimbles, Mrs* Dorothy
made tea. Then Mrs. St. Eloy adjourned to the audit-room,
where the housekeeper, butler, and steward were severally,
favoured with an audience ; and here she relieved the . sick
poor, (for she was a most charitable and excellent person,)
partly by certain family medicines of her own compounding,
which were for such things exceedingly harmless — that is >>
say, I never heard of any body that was actually killed by
them ; partly by the fa|| more useful donation of money.
Here also she received otner petitioners and complaints, who
were accustomed to resort to her as a sort of female justice of.
the peace for redress of grievances ; an ofiice which she per-
formed— as woman, better partisans than arbitrators, are apt
to perform such offices — with much zeal but little discretion,
so that she got into divers scrapes, out of which her money
and her attorney were fain to help her. Then she adjourned
to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Dorothy read aloud the news-
paper, especially all that related to war and battle, whilst her ;
mistress sighed over her netting. Then, weather permitting,
she took a walk in the garden. Then she dressed. Then at
three o'clock she dined, sitting down alone (for Mrs. Dorothy
did not partake of that meal with her lady) to such a banquet
as might have feasted the mayor and corporation of Belford
— I had almost said, of London — attended by the old butler,
Mr. Gilbert by name, in his powdered pigtail, his silk stock-
ings and flowered satin waistcoat, and three footmen liveried in
blue and yellow. Then, fatigued with the labours of the day,
she took a gentle nap. Then, at six precisely, she drank tea ;
after which it was Mrs. Adams's business to lose, if she could,
several hits at backgammon. Then, at nine, she supped ; at .
half-past, prayers were read in the chapel ; and at ten precisely
the whole household went to bed.

The monotony of this life was somewhat solaced by a pas-
sion for such birds as are commonly seen in cages and aviaries. .
Mrs. St. Eloy was noted especially for the breeding of canaries,.

. 320

THE YOUKO PAINTER.

whose noise^ atrocious in most places^ served here at least to
break the conventual silence of the mansion ; and for the edu-
cation of linnets and goldfinches^ to which^ with unwearied
patience^ she taught a variety of such tricks as drawing their
own water in a little bucket^ fetching and carrying a bit of
atraw^ and so forth.

Encouraged by success^ she hadj^lately undertaken the more
difficult task of communicating musical instruction to a bull-
finch^ which already piped '^God save the King*' almost as
well as the barrel-organ from which it learned^ and was now
about to enter upon the popular air of Robin Adair/’ as per-
formed by the same instrument. The bird itself^ and the
little organ from which it gathered the tune^ were placed^ for
the sake of separation from the canaries which filled the draw-
ing-room^ in a spacious gallery fornmg one of the wings of
the house and running over the launory, an airy and beautiful
apartment which Mrs. St. Eloy called the museum ; and her
pleasure in this occupation caused her to infringe more fre-
quently on the long-established rules for the employment of
her time than she had been known to do in the whole course
of her spinstership. It was also the cause of her acquaintance
with Louis Duval.

The little bird^ to whom she and Mrs. Dorothy Adams had
somehow given the unromantic name of Bobby^ was so tame^
that they were accustomed to let him out of his cage> and allow
him to perch on the barrel-organ during the time of his music
lesson. A pretty bird he was, with his grey back, and his red
breast, and his fine intelligent eye ; a pretty bird, and exceed-
ingly pretty-mannered : he would bow and bend, and turn his
glossy black head to one sido or the other, and when offered
a piece of sugar, (the cate he loved best,) would advance and
recede with a very piquant mixture of shyness and confidence,
afraid to take it from his lady’s fair hand, and yet so nearly
taking/ that if thrown towards him he would pick it up before
it .reached the table. A charming bird was Bobby, and such
awpet as never bird was before. I will venture to say, that
Mrs. St Eloy would rather have lost a thousand pounds than
that bullfinch.

One day, however, that misfortune did seem likely to befal
her. It was on a fine morning towards the end of May/ when
the windows of the west gallery, which looked to the garden,

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

321

were open, Mrs. Adams grinding the barrel-organ, and Bobby
perched upon it practising Robin Adair/' that the old butler,
opening the door with unwonted suddenness, startled the bird,
who flew out of the window and was half-way towards the
river before the astounded females had recovered the use of
their tongues. The first use to which they put those members
was of course a duett of scolding for the benefit of the butler ;
but as vituperation would not recover their pet, they inter-
mitted their lecture and ordered a general muster in the garden
in chase of the stray favourite.

There he was, amidst the white-blossomed cherry-trees
and the espaliers garlanded with their pink blossoms ; now
perched on a sweetbriar; now flitting across a yew hedge;
now glancing this way, now darting that ; now escaping from
under the extended hand ; now soaring as high again as the
house. Footmen, coachmen, postilions, housemaids, garden-
ers, dairy -maids, laundry-women, cook, scullion, housekeeper ;
the luckless butler, Mrs. Dorothy, and Mrs. St, Eloy, all
joined in the pursuit, which for some time, owing to the
coquetry of Bobby, who really seemed balancing between the
joys of liberty and the comforts of home, had the proper mix-
ture of hope and fear, of anxiety and uncertainty, that belongs
to such a scene ; but at last a tremendous squall, uttered from
the lungs of a newly-hired cockney housemaid, who had trod
on a water.snake and expected nothing less than death to
ensue, — which squall was reinforced from the mere power of
sympathy, by all the females of the party, — produced a species
of chorus so loud and discordant, and so unacceptable to the
musical taste of our accomplished bullfinch, that the catas-
trophe which from the first Mrs. St. Eloy had dreaded immedi-
ately took place — the bird flew across the river, and alighted
amongst some fine old hawthorns in the opposite meadow.

The Nunnery boat was (as in such cases always happens)
locked up in the boat-house, and the key in the gamekeeper's
pocket, and the keeper Heaven knew where ; the bridge was
hHf a mile off, and not a soul within Sight, or a craft on the
river except one little green boat — and that boat empty —
moored close to the hawthorns on the opposite side. The
recovery of Bobby seemed hopeless. Whilst, however/ some
were running to the bridge, and others attempting to catch
sight of the stray bird, our friend Louis emerged from the

Y

322 THE YOUNG PAINTER.

May bushes^ bullfinch in band, jumped into his little boat,
darted across the river, leaped ashore, and, with a smiling
courtesy, a gentle grace, which won every female heart in the
garden, restored the trembling favourite to its delighted mis-
tress.

Louis (now nearly fifteen) had so entirely the air and bear-
ing of a gentleman’s son, that Mrs. St. Eloy was treating him
as an equal, and was distressed at not being able to dnd a
reward adequate to the service, when Mr. Gilbert, the old but-
ler, to whom he was already advantageously known, and who
was enchanted to find his own misdemeanour so comfortably
repaired, stepped forward and introduced him to his lady as
the excellent lad who had detected the poor Abbe’s murderer.

On this hint, Mrs. St. Eloy, after* reiterated thanks and the
kindest notice both of himself and little Bijou, who was as
usual his companion in the boat, took out her purse, and was
about to force on him a munificent recompense, when she was
stopped by Louis, who, with an earnestness not to be overcome,
entreated her not to spoil the pleasure of one of the happiest
moments of his life by any pecuniary offer. If her generoMty
considered so slight a service as worthy a reward, there was a
favour — ” And Louis half repenting that he had said so
much, blushed, hesitated, and stopped short.

The l«ly, however, insisted on his finishing his request ;
and then Louis confessed that one of his chief desires was to
be permitted to see a picture in her possession, a portrait of
Charles the First by Vandyke ; and that if he might be
allowed that favour, he should consider himself as much her
debtor as she was pleased, most erroneously, to profess herself
bis.’^

Charmed at once with the petition and the manner, (for
the Vandyke portrait was the apple of her eye,) the lady of
the Nunnery Ted the way directly to the west gallery, in one
of the compartments of which hung the exquisite painting of
which Louis Jbad so often heard.

r It is singular that in many portraits of those illustrious per-
sons who have met with a remarkable and untimely death, the ex-
pression of the countenance often seems to foreshadow a lament-
able end. Lawrence’s portrait of Sir John Moore, and almost
all of the many pictures of the Princess Charlotte, whose large
mysterious eye, with its intensity of sadness, presented such a

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

32S

contrast to her youthful bloom and brilliant fortunes, may
serve to illustrate the observation ; but its most striking con-
firmation is undoubtedly to be found in those splendid portraits
of Charles by Vandyke, which seem at once to em^dy the
character and the destiny of that mistaken and unhappy
monarch. Those portraits, with their chivalrous costume and
their matchless grace of air and attitude, are in themselves a
history. Amidst the profound melancholy of that remarkable
countenance, we recognise at once the despotic, obstinate, sus-
picious king ; the accomplished and elegantly-minded gentle-
man ; the puller down of liberty, the setter-up of art* he who
with so much taste for the highest literature, that he was
known, as recorded by Milton, to make William Shakspeare
the closet companion of his solitudes,*' yet put his crown
and his life in jeopardy to suppress that freedom of thought
which is the vital breath of poetry; the monarch who was in
his own day so faithfully supported, so honestly opposed ; and
whom in after time his most admiring partisans cannot but
blame, and his fiercest opponents must needs pity. The pos-
thumous influence of beauty is not more strongly evinced by
the interest which clings round the memory of Mary of Scot-
land, than the power of painting, by the charm which is flung
about every recollection of Charles. If kings were wise, they
would not fail to patronise the art which can so amply repay
their protection.

Louis felt the picture as such a picture ought to be felt.
HeJ[[stood before it mute and motionless, quite forgetting to
praise, with every faculty absorbed in admiration ; and Mrs.
St. Eloy had sufficient taste to appreciate the impression which
this noble work of art had made on one who longed to become
an artist. Even in common spectators the manner of seeing a
picture is no mean test of character. Your superficial cox-
comb (such, for example, as our friend King Harwood) shall
skip up to a great painting, and talk that species of nonsense
' called criticism, praising an<f blaming to display his connois-
seurship, flinging about flippant censure, and eulogy more
impertinent still, as if he regarded the chef-t^cBUvre before him
as a mere theme for the display of his own small knowledge
and less wit. The man of genius, on the other hand, is hap-
pily free from the pretensions of a haunting self-conceit. His
admiration, undisturbed by the desire of saying pretty things,

Y 2

S24

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

is honest and genuine. 1 have seen a great orator awestruck
by the grandeur of Salvator, entranced by the grace of Guer-
cino, and his whole mind so filled and saturated by the beauty
of a singularly fine collection, that the conversation of persons
worthy of their pictures — that conversation of which he is
usually the life and the ornament — seemed to put him out.
The effort to talk disturbed the impression.

Just in this way felt Louis ; and when Mrs. St. Eloy pro-
ceeded to show him some of the curiosities which her family,
hoarders from generation to generation had accumulated, and
which ilfere all gathered together in this spacious gallery—
Japan cabinets full of valuable coins ; Indian pagods ; China
monsters of the choicest ugliness ; armour of the date of the
Civil Wars, French and English; reliques protestant and
loyalist, including a breast-plate of the Admiral de Coligni, a
satin slipper once belonging to the unfortunate Madame Eliza-
beth, a spur of Prince Rupert’s, and what she valued beyond
all other articles, the horn-hook out of which the unhappy
Charles learnt his alphabet — a pretty toy made of ivory, with
gold letters ; — when she produced these treasures for his gra-
tification, and partly perhaps for her own, (for where is the
pleasure of possessing a rarity unless other eyes see it? — we
geranium -growers know that!) — Louis frankly confessed that
he could look only at the picture; and the good old lady,
instead of being offended at the neglect of her bijoux, kindly
pressed him to come and see her and the Vandyke as often as
he could spare time ; and, on finding that, fearful of intruding,
a week dapsed without his repeating his visit, she sent his
friend Gilbert to bring him one fine morning to the Nunnery,
and invited him to dine at her own table.

From this hour Louis became her declared favourite ; and
Other observers, besides the good butcher, foreboded a total
change of destiny to the fortunate boy. Louis himself, though
utterly free from legacy-hunting and all mercenary speculations,
had yet a secret design in his frequent visits to the west gallery.
He longed to copy the Vandyke portrait ; but, too modest to
ask so great a favour, he contented himself with contemplating
it as frequently as possible, and endeavouring to transfer its
pearly colour and matchless expression to a study of the head
which he was attempting from recpllectioii at home.

In the mean time, his frequent visits were of almost equal

THE YOUNG PAINTER. ^25

service to himself and to Mrs. St. Eloy. Tranquilly and
innocently as her days had glided by, she was conscious of a
new and most pleasurable development of affections too long
dormant, as she gazed with an alriiost motherly interest on the
graceful and spirited boy, who, whilst overthrowing in his own
person one of her most cherished prejudices in favour of high
blood, by showing that the son of a pastry-cook might be one
of nature's gentlemen, fell most naturally into her peculiarities
and ways of thinking on other points ; had learned from the
Abbe to be as violent an anti-jacobin as she was l^^self, as
thoroughly devoted to the cause of monarchy and the Bour-
bons ; and demanded no other evidence than that of the Van-
dyke portrait to be as stanch an adherent to King Charles, as
loyal a cavalier and as honest a hater of the Roundheads, as
ever led a charge at the side of Prince Rupert. Louis was
half French too ; and so, after the lapse of two centuries, was
his kind patroness : she clung to the country of her ancestors,
tile land where they had won their knightly arms and had
ranked amongst nobles and princes ; though, under the influ-
ence of different circumstances, she and her immediate pro-
genitors had long embraced a political creed widely different
from that of the Huguenot refugee, flying from the persecu-
tion of a despotic monarch, who had been the first inhabitant
of the Nunnery. She loved the very name of Frenchman —
always provided he were neither Republican nor Bonapartist,
and in her secret soul attributed much of the elegance and
talent of her young favourite to the southern blood that flowed
in his veins.

Louis, on his part, looked with a mingled sentiment of love
and veneration on the kind and gentle recluse, who cast aside
for his sake her hereditary stateliness and her long habits of
solitude, and treated him rather with the indulgent affection
of a kinswoman •than the condescension of a superior. Full
of quickness and observation, he saw the little old-maidish
ways that mingled with her genuine benevolence of temper
and her singular simplicity of character; but, grateful and
warm hearted, he liked her all the better for her harmless
peculiarities, took a sincere interest in the hatching of her
canary birds, and assisted in the education of Bobby by adding
the old French air of ‘^Charmante Gabrielle" to his musical
acquirements. Mrs. Dorothy Adams, with whom, as well as
Y 3

326 THE YOUNG PAINTER.

with the old butler, the lively lad was a great favourite, (and
be it said, par parenthesc, that he who was favoured by one of
these worthy personages would not fail to rank high in the
good graces of the other, they having been betrothed lovers for
thirty years and odd, but still postponing their nuptials out of
deference to the well-known opinions of their lady) — Mrs.
Dorothy declared that his whistling was as good as the bird
organ ; Mrs. St. Eloy was enchanted ; ®and Bobby himself,
sharing, as it appeared, the fancy of his mistress, would fly to
Louis, perch upon his finger, and begin piping the moment
he entered the west gallery.

Besides this apartment, which on account of the beloved
picture continued to be that which he most frequented, there
was another room in the house of- great attraction — a large,
low, well-filled library, containing a really fine collection of
old books, French and English, from Urry’s Chaucer and a
black-letter Froissart downwards, — a collection rich especially
in Memoirs of the Fronde and the Ligue in the one language,
and in choice tracts of the times of the Commonwealth in the
other, — full, in short, of that most fascinating sort of reading
which may be called the materials of history.

Here Louis would sit for hours, poring over the narrative of
Sir Thomas Herbert, or the then unpublished memoirs of Lady
Fanshaw, or the ponderous but captivating volumes of Claren-
don ; or those volumes, more ponderous and more captivating
still, the matchlessly interesting State Trials, of which the
eleven folio volumes are all too little. And then he would
lose all sense of time in the fascination of the old French
Memoires, from Philip de Commines to the Cardinal de Retz,
and wonder whether there were any portrait of Henri Quatre
half so fine as Vandyke's Charles the First.

There was another compartment of the library which Louis
liked to glance over and laugh at, — a misdfellaneous corner
where all manner of quaint odd books were gathered together
— books that mingl^ as strangely as the breastplate of Coligni
and the horn -book oL King Charles. There lay the Duchess
of Newcastle's Plays with the Religious Courtship ; Maun-
dreirs Travels frorA .Aleppo to Jerusalem, with TulwelPs
Flower of Fame'; Quarles's Divine Emblems, with Culpeper's
Herbal; and the Divine Fancies digested into Epigrams, side
by side with the Complete Housewife, or Accomplished Gen-

THE YOUNG Pjk INTER.

[327

tlewoman's Companion*; which last choice volume was ren«
dered still more valuable by certain MS, recipes, written in a
small cramped hand, and with a bold originality of orthogra-
phy, which were curiously pasted on the blank leaves.

In a word, Louis loved the Nunnery. His little skiff (for
he generally came by water) was so constantly directed thither-
ward, that, as Mrs. Duval observed, (who, charmed with the
notice taken of him, was yet half jealous of his frequent ab-
sence,) there was no doubt but the boat knew the way, and
would have floated down the stream and stopped at the ter-
race-garden of its own accord.'* Even on the rarely oJicurring
days that he did not spend with Mrs. St. Eloy, he used to
row by the place, especially if he had been painting on the
‘‘ Charles : ” the very sight of the west gallery windows seemed
to bring the picture more vividly before him. And now his
study was so nearly finished, that, relying on Mrs. St. Eloy's
indulgence, he had half resolved to bring the copy and see
whether there was any faint and remote resemblance to the
original. His mother said that no original could be finer; —
but what would the Vandyke say.^

One evening, towards the end of August, he was rowing
past the Nunnery garden at an unusually late hour, having
been tempted by the weather and the scenery into a somewhat
distant excursion, when, pausing involuntarily and looking
towards the house, — long ago, as he well knew, shut up for
the night, — he was struck by the singular appearance in the
lower windows of the west wing, the windows of the laundry.
The shutters were closed ; but through every crevice appeared
a light so brilliant and intense that you might have thought it
was some illuminated ball-room. Startled, but still uncertain
of the cause, Louis approached the garden and leapt ashore ;
and in that instant the flames burst forth from the farthest
window of the wing, — burst forth with the rushing noise
that none who has ever heard it can forget, and with a radiance
so bright, so broad, so glaring, that in a moment the cool night
air, the dark blue firmament, and the quiet river were lighted
up by the fearful element, and every leaf and flower in the
garden became distinctly visible as beneath the noonday sun.

To call “ Fire ! *' to rouse the sleeping inmates, to get

* Vide note at the end of the' article.

Y 4

328

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

Mrs. St. Eloy and her household into the garden^ and to col-
lect the neighbourhood^ seemed to be the work of a moment
to the dert and active Iwy. The villagers were rapidly called
together by the alarm bell, by the shrieks of frighted women,
and, more than all, by the sheets of ilame which glared on the
water and coloured the sky ; and the clergyman of the parish,
a man of sense, courage, and presence of mind, employed the
people in cutting a division between the wing and the body of
the house, which — as the fire was luckily at the extreme end,
that whjch was farthest from the main building — as there
was a fire-engine on the premises and the village engine came
lumbering in — as water was near and help abundant — there
was every chance of effecting. That the whole wing must be
destroyed was inevitable ; for although as yet the fire was con-
fined to^ the laundry, where it had burst out, yet the long
tongues of .flame were already creeping up the outside of the
gallery, and .the wood- work of the windows might be heard
crackling in the occasional lull that intervened amid the fright*
ful sounds of the most frightful of earthly scenes, — the sense-
less screams of women, the fierce oaths of men, the howling
of startled dogs, the deep tolling of the bell, the strange heavy
rumbling noise of the advancing engines, the hissing and bub-
bling of the water, the rush and roar of the fire ! — By none
who has once heard those sounds can they ever be forgotten !

Poof Mrs. St. Eloy, wrapped in a large cloak, sat pale and
silent under the scorching trees of her beautiful garden, sur-
rounded by her helpless maidens, lamenting, crying, scolding,
bewailing in every mode of female terror; whilst her old
men-servants were assisting the firemen and the stout peasantry
in removing the furniture and working the engines. Mrs.
Dorothy stood by her mistress, trying to comfort her; but,
bewildered by the horror of the scene, and by fears for her
lover, who was foremost amongst the assistants, those endea-
vours were of a sort which, if Mrs. St. Eloy had happened to
listen to them, would have had exactly a contrary effect:
" Poor Bobby I " sobbed the weeping dame d^atours : " and
Louis, poor dear boy ! what can have become of him } ”

Louis !" echoed Mrs. St. Eloy ; " ^acious Heaven, where
is he? WhQ saw hi^n last? Gilbert, Mr. Congreve ! '* ex-
claimed she, darting* towards the fire, have either of you
seen Louis Duval?"

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

At that instant^ Louis himself appeared breathless and
panting at the great window of the gallery.

A ladder ! ” was instantly the cry.

No, no!” replied Louis; ^^feather-beds! mattresses!
Quick ! quick ! ” added he, as the flames were seen rising
beside him : and the old butler placed the mattresses with the
rapidity of thought, and with equal rapidity Louis flung out
the Vandyke.

Now a ladder !” cried the intrepid boy. The floor is
giving way ! ”

And clinging to the stone-work of the window, with hair
and hands and garments scorched and blackened by the fire,
but no material injury, he jumped upon the ladder, and on
reaching the ground, found himself clasped in Mrs. St. Eloy’s
arms.

Thank Heaven !’* cried she, wiping away a gush of tears ;
— thanks to all-gracious Heaven, you are safe,: Louis ! 1

care for nothing now. All other losses are light and trivial —
you are saved ! ”

Ay, dearest madam,” replied Louis, I, and a better
thing — the Charles ! the Vandyke ! — only see here ! — safe
and unhurt ! ”

You are safe, Louis ! ” rejoined his friend. There is
no life lost,” added she more calmly.

Poor Bobby ! ” sighed forth Mrs. Dorothy. And Louis
smiled and drew the little creature safe and unhurt from his
bosom, stroking its glossy head and whistling the old French
tune of Charmante Gabrielle and the bird took up the air
and piped by the light of the fire as if it had been noon-day.

We are all safe, Mrs. Dorothy, Bobby and T, and the
Vandyke ; and here comes dear, good, Mr. Gilbert, safe and
sound too, to say that now the gallery has fallen in, the fire
will soon be got under. We'll have a search to-morrow for
King Charles's horn-book, and the admiral's cuirass, and Prince
Rupert's spur ; there's some chance still that we may find them
unmelted. But the portrait and Bobby were the chief things
to save, — were they not, dearest madam ? Worth all the
rest, — are they not ?”

No, Louis, it is you that are worth all and everything,”
rejoined Mrs. St. Eloy, taking his arm ta return into the
house. Your life, which you have risked for an old woman's

SSO THE YOUNG PAINTER.

whiniB^ is more precious than all that I possess in the worlds’’
reiterated the grateful old lady ; and you ought not to have
perilled that life, even for Bobby and the Vandyke !” pursued
she, slowly ascending the steps, — ^^not even for the King
Charles ! Remember, Gilbert, that you go for my solicitor
the first thing to-morrow morning. I must alter my will
before I sleep.”

‘^Ho! ho!'' chuckled our honest friend Stephen Lane,
who had come up from Belford with the last reinforcements,
and was selecting trusty persons to keep watch over the pro-
perty. Ho I ho I ” chuckled Stephen, with a knowing nod
and an arch wink, and a smile of huge delight ; altering
her will, is she ? - That ’ll be as good as a pot of gold any-
how. I wonder now,” thought Stephen to himself, whe-
ther the foolish woman his mother, will claim this as a making
out of her dream ? I dare say she will ; for when a woman
once takes a thing into her head, she’ll turn it and twist it a
thousand ways but she’ll make it answer her purpose. Dang
it ! ” chuckled the worthy butcher, rubbing his hands with
inexpressible glee, I’m as glad as if I had found a pot of gold
myself ; he's such a famous lad I And if his mother chooses
to lay Ae good luck to her dream,” exclaimed Stephen mag-
nanimously, why let her.”

Note. — I cannot resist the temptation of quoting a few
passages from one or two of these quaint old works, beginning,
a^ bound in loyalty, with the dedication to Quarles’s Divine
Fancies, digested into Epigrams, Meditations, and Observa-
tions. London; printed for William Meares, l6‘32. Dedi-
cated to the Hoy all Bud of Majestie, and center of all our hopes
and happiness. Prince Charles ; son and Heir Apparent to
the High and Mightie Charles, by the Grace of God, King of
Great Britain, France, and Ireland.” In which Epistle Dedi-
catorie,” he says : Modell of sweetnesse, let thy busie fingers
entertaine this slender presente ; let thy harmless smiles crowne
it ; when thy infancie hath crackt the shell, let thy childhood
ta»t the kernel : meantime, while thy little hands and eyes
peruse it, lugg it in thy tender arms, and lay the burthen at
thy royal parent’s feet Heaven bless thy youth with grace.

THU YOUNG PAINTER.

S31

and crown tliy days with glory ; angels conduct thee from the
cradle to the crown ; let the English rose and the French
lillie flourish in thy cheeks ; let the most eminent qualities of
thy renowned grandfathers meet in thy princely heart — **
And so forth, longer than I care to tell.

Now for a choice recipe from The Compleat Housewife,
or Accomplished Gentlewoman’s Companion, with curiously
engraved copper-plates. To which is added a collection of
above two hundred family receipts of medicines : viz. Drinks,
sirops, salves, and ointments, never before made publick. By
E. S. Printed for J. Pemberton, Golden Buck, over against
St. Diinstan’s Church, Fleet Street, 1730.” — The Lady
Hewit’s cordial water : — Take red sage, betony, spear* mint,
hyssop, setwell, thyme, balm, pennyroyal, celandine, water-
cresses, heart*s-ease, lavender, angelica, germander, colemint,
tamarisks, coltsfoot, valerian, saxefrage, pimpernel, vervain,
parsley, rosemary, savory, scabious, agrimony, mother-thyme,
wild marjorum, Roman wormwood, carduus benedictus, pelli-
tory of the wall, field-daisies (flowers and leaves). Of each
of these herbs take a handful, after they are picked and
washed. Of rose-yarrow, comfrey, plain tain, camomile,
sweet marjorum, maiden-hair; of each of these a handful
before they are washed or picked. Red rose-leaves and cow-
slip-flowers, of each half a peck ; rosemary flowers a quarter
of a peck ; hartshorn, two ounces ; juniper berries, one dram;
chive roots, one ounce ; comfrey roots sliced ; anniseed, fen-
nel-seeds, carraway-seeds, nutmegs, ginger, cinnamom, pep-
per, spikenards, parsley seeds, cloves and mace ; aromaticum
rosarum, three drams ; sassefras sliced, half an ounce ; alecam-
pane roots, melilot flowers, calamus aroraaticus, cardamums,
lignum vitflB, aloes, rhubarb sliced thin. Galengal, veronica,
lodericum ; of these each two drams ; acer bezoar, thirty
grains ; musk, twenty-four grains ; ambergris, twenty grains ;
flour of coral, two drams ; flour of amber, two drams ; flour
of pearl, two drams ; half a book of leaf gold ; saffron in a
little bag, two drams ; white sugar-candy, one pound. Wash
the herbs, and swing them in a cloth till dry ; in the midst of
the herbs put the seeds, spices, and drugs; which being
bruised, then put^to the whole to steep in as muc];i rich sherry
sack of the best, as will cover them. Distil theiri in ^an
alembic, and pour the water into quart bottles. There never

$32

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

was a better cordial in cases of illness : ti^ or three spoon-
fuls will almost revive from death."

Long live my Lady Hewit ! Four of the giants of old
could scarcely do more than shake that enormous bundle of
herbs in the mainsail of a modern man-of-war ! One may
imagine the bustle and importance of concocting this cordial ;
the number of maidens picking the herbs ; the housekeeper^
or perchance the family apothecary, selecting and compounding
the drugs ; the perfume and aroma of this splendid and right
royal ceremony. Dr. Steven's water, my Lady Allen's water,
and aqua mirabilis, all deserve to be recorded ; but I think
my Lady Hewit’s recipe the most various and imaginative.

After Lady Hewit, one small dose of Nicholas Culpeper,
and I have done. It is extracted from The English Phy-
sitian, with three hundred sixty and nine medicines made of
English herbs that were not in any impression until this ;
being an Astrologico-physical Discourse of the vulgar Herbs
of this nation ; containing the complete method of preserving
health, or cure himself being ill, for three-pence charge, with
such things only as grow in England, they being most fit for
English bodies. By Nicholas Culpeper, Gent., Student in
Physick and Astrology. London : printed for Peter Cole, at
the sign of the Printing Press in Cornhill, near the Royal
Exchange. 1654'."

N.B. This elaborate treatise was a posthumous work, —
one, as appears from a most curious prefatory epistle by Mrs,
Alice Culpeper, the relict of Nicholas, — one out of seventy-
nine books of his own making and translating, left on her hands
and deposited into the hand of his and her much honoured friend
Mr. Peter Cole, bookseller, at the Printing Press, near the
Royal Exchange, from whom they may be expected in print
at due season. Also, her husband left seventeen other books
completely perfected in the hand of the said Mr. Cole, for
which he paid her husband in his life-time." [[Jewel of a
bookseller ! Alas, that the race should be extinct 1[] " And

Mr. Cole is ready and willing (on any good occasion) to shew
any of the said seventy-nine books, or the seventeen, to such
as doubt thereof." — Inestimable Peter Cole! if he could
but have communicated his faith in Nicholas Culpeper to his
customers, he would have made a better bargain. 1 wonder
how many of the said seventy-nine books or of the seven-

THE YOUNG PAINTER. 3$$

teen ever were printed ^ and, if printed, how many were
sold ? and what (le size and weight of the MSS. might be
altogetlier ? — whether one waggon would hold the huge pon-
derosities ? or whether they would require two ?

I rrthst now, however, give a brief specimen of Nicholas’s
astrologico.physical treatise, — a short sample it must be, for
a collection of the Beauties of Culpeper” would be as
tedious in this duodecimo age as one of his own heaviest
volumas. Thus adviseth Nicholas :

Keep your head outwardly warm. Accustom yourself to
smell hot herbs. Take a pill that heats the head at night
going to bed. In the morning, a decoction that cools the
liver. — You must not think, courteous people, that I can
spend my time in giving you examples of all diseases. These
are enough to let you see as much light as you can receive
without hurt. If I should set you to look upon the sun of my
knowledge, you would he dazzled.

To such as study astrology (who are the only men I know
fit to study physick), (physick without astrology being like a
lamp without oyl), you are the men I exceedingly respect ,*
and such documents as my brain can give you (being at pre-
sent absent from my study), I shall give you, and an example
to show the proof.

Fortifie the body with herbs of the nature of the Lord of
the Ascendant ; Tis no matter whether he be fortune or in-
fortune in this case. Let your medicine be something anti-
pathetical to the Lord of the Sixth. Let your medicine be
something of the nature of the sign ascending. If the JLord
of the Tenth be strong, make use of medicine. If this
cannot well be, make use of the medicines of the light of time.
Be sure alwaies to fortifie the grieved part of the body by
sympathetic remedies. Regard the heart. Keep it upon the
wheels, because the sun is the fountain of life, and therefore
those universal remedies aurum potabile and the’ philosopher’s
stone cure all diseases by fortifying the heart.”

He says of the vine : It is a most gallant tree, very
sympathetical with the body of man.” Of the willow:

The moon owns it, and, being a fine cool tree, the branches
of it are very convenient to be placed in the chamber of one
sick of a fever.” Of woodftwrf, or honeysuckles : the ce-
lestial Crab claims it. It is fitting a conserve made of the

1S34 THE surgeon's COURTSHIP.

flowers of it were in every gentlewoman’s house ! for if the
lungs be afflicted by Jupiter, this is your dhre.”

Also, he saith : If I were to tell a long story of medicines
working by sympathy or antipathy, ye would not understand
one word of it. They that are fit to make ]phisitiafls will
find it in my treatise.” [Query — One of the seventy-nine ?
or of the seventeen } — the paid, or unpaid wisdom All
modern phisitians know not what belongs to a sympathetical
cure, no more than a cuckoo knows what belongs to sharps and
flats in musick; but follow the vulgar road and call it a
hidden quality, because it is hid from the eyes of dunces : —
and indeed none but astrologers can give reason for it, — and
phisick without reason is like a pudding without fat,” quoth
Nicholas Culpeper.

Finally, he says, — He that reads this and understands
what he reads, hath a jewel more worth than a diamond.
This shall live when I am dead ; and thus I leave it to the
world, not caring a half-penny whether they like it or dislike
it The grave equals all men ; therefore shall equal me with
princes, until which time an eternal Providence is over me ;
then the ill tongue of a prattling priest, or one who hath
more tongue than wit, more pride than honesty, shall never
trouble me.”

THE SURGEON'S COURTSHIP.

It seems rather paradoxical to say that a place noted for good
air should be favourable to the increase and prosperity of the
medical tribe ; nevertheless the fact is so, certainly in this par-
ticular instance, and I suspect in many others ; and when the
causes are looked into, the circumstance^ will seem less asto-
nishing than it appears at the first glance, — a good air being,
as we all know, the pis alter of the physician, the place to
which, when the resources of his art are exhausted, he sends
his patients to recover or to die, as it may happen. Sometimes
they really do recover, especially if in leaving their medical
attendant they also leave off medicine ; but for the most part,

THE SUBOEOn’s COURTSHIP. sis

poor things ! they die just as certainly as they would have
done if they had^tayed at home, only that the sands run a
little more rapidly in consequence of the glass being shaken :
and this latter catastrophe is particularly frequent in Belford,
whose mucl^vauntcd air being, notwithstanding its vicinity to
a great river, keen, dry, and bracing, is excellently adapted for
preserving health in the healthy, but very unfit for the delicate
lungs of an invalid.

The place, however, has a name for salubrity ; and, as sick
people continue to resort to it in hopes of getting well, there
is of course, no lack of doctors to see them through the disease
with proper decorum, cure them if they can, or let them die if
so it must be. There is no lack of doctors, and still less is
there a lack of skill ; for, although the air of Belford may be
overrated, there is no mistake in the report which assigns to
the medical men of the town singular kindness, attention, and
ability.

Thirty years ago these high professional qualities were apt
to be alloyed by the mixture of a little professional peculiarity
in dress and pedantry in manner. The faculty had not in those
days completely dropped the gold-headed cane ; and in
provincial towns especially, the physician was almost as dis-
tinguishable by the cut of his clothes as the clergyman by his
shovel-crowned hat, or the officer by his uniform.

The two principal physicians of Belford at this period were
notable exemplifications of medical costume — each might
have sat for the picture of an M.D. The senior, and perhaps
the more celebrated of the two, was a short, neat old gentle,
man, of exceedingly small proportions, somewhat withered and
shrivelled, but almost as fair, and delicate, and carefully pre-
served, as if he had himself been of that sex of which he was
the especial favourite — an old lady in his own person. His
dress was constantly a tight stock, shoes with buckles, brown
silk stockings, and a full suit of drab ; the kid gloves, with
which his wrinkled white hands were at once adorned and
preserved, were of the same sober hue ; and the shining bob-
wig, which covered no common degree of intellect and know-
ledge, approached as nearly to the colour of the rest of his
apparel as the difference of material would admit. His li-
veries might have been cut from the same piece with his own
coat, and tlie chariot, in which he might be computed to pass

336

THB surgeon’s COURTSHIP*

one third of his time^ (fbr he would as soon have dreamt of
flying as of walking to visit his next-door neighbour,) was of
a sirhilar complexioh. Such was the outer man of the shrewd
and sensible Dr. Littleton. Add, that he loved a rubber, and
that his manner was a little prim, a little quaint and a little
fidgetty, and the portrait of the good old man will be com-
plete.

His competitor, Dr. Granville, would have made four of
Dr. Littleton, if cut into quarters. He was a tall, large, raw-
boned man, who looked like a North Briton, and I believe
actually came from that country, so famous for great phy-
sicians; His costume was invariably black, surmounted by a
powdered head and a pigtail, which some of his fair patients
(for the doctor was a single man, and considered as a trds~bon
parti by the belles of the town) flatteringly asserted was
adopted for the purpose of making him look older — a purpose
which most assuredly it did not fail to effect.

However this may be. Dr. Littleton's chestnut-coloured bob
and Dr, Granville's powdered pigtail set the fashion amongst
the inferior practitioners. From the dear old family apo-
thecary— the kind and good old man, beloved even by the
children whom he physicked, and regarded by the parents as
one of their most valued friends — to the pert parish doctor,
whom Crabbe has described so well, all pride and business,
bustle, and conceit ; " from the top to the bottom of the pro-
fession, every medical man in Bel ford wore a bob- wig or a
pigtail. It was as necessary a preliminary to feeling a pulse,
or writing a prescription, as a diploma ; and to have cured a
patient without the regular official decoration would have
been a breach of decorum that nothing could excuse. Nay,
so long did the prejudice last, that when some dozen years
afterwards three several adventurers tried their fortune in the
medical line at Belford, their respective failures were univer-
sally attributed to the absence of the proper costume ; though
the first was ar prating fop, who relied entirely on calomel and
the depleting system — an English Sangrado ! — the second,
a solemn coxcomb, who built altogether on stimulants — gave
brandy in apoplexies, and sent his patients, persons who had
always lived soberly, tipsy oijt .of the. world ; and the third, a
scientific Jack-of-all- trades, who pasi^ his days in catching
butterflies and stuffing birds for his museum, examining strata.

THE burgeon's OOURTSHlPj

S37

and analysing springs — detecting Cheltenham in one, Bareget
in another, fancying some new-fangled chalybeate in the rusty
scum of a third, and writing books on them all — whilst his
business^ such as it was, was left to take care of itself. To
my fancy, the inside of these heads might very well account
for the non-success of their proprietors ; nevertheless, the good
inhabitants of Belford obstinately referred their failure to the
want of bob-wigs, pig-tails, and hair-powder.

Now, however, times are altered — altered even in Belford
Aself. Dr. Littleton and Dr. Granville repose with their pa-
tients in the churchyard of St. Nicholas, and their costumes
are gone to the tomb of the Capulets.

Of a truth, all professional distinctions in dress are rapidly
wearing away. Uniforms, it is true, still exist; but, except
upon absolute duty, are seldom exhibited : and who, except
my venerable friend the Rector of Hddley, ever thinks of
wearing a shovel-hat

Amongst medical practitioners especially, all peculiarities,
whether of equipage or apparel, are completely gone by. The
chariot is no more necessary, except as a matter of convenience,
than the gold-headed cane or the bob- wig ; and our excellent
friend Dr. Chard may, as it suits him, walk in the town, or
ride on horse-back, or drive his light open carriage in the
country, without in the slightest degree impugning his high
reputation, or risking his extensive practice ; whilst the most
skilful surgeon in Belford may be, and actually is, with equal
impunity the greatest beau in the place.

Tliere are not many handsomer or more agreeable men than
Mr. Edward Foster, who — the grandson by his mother s side
of good old Dr. Littleton, and by his father's of the venerable
apothecary, so long his friend and contemporary, and com-
bining considerable natural talent with a tirst-rate scientific
education — stepped, as by hereditary right, into the first con-
nection in Belford and its populous and opulent neighbourhood,
and became alniost immediately the leading surgeon of the
town.

Skilful, accomplished, clever^ kind, — possessing, besides
his professional emoluments, an easy private fortune, and
living with a very agreeable single sister in one of the best
houses of the place, — Edward Foster, to say nothing of his
good looks, seemed to combine within himself all the elements

SS8 THE surgbon’s courtship.

of popularity. His good looks, too, were of the best sort> re-
sulting from a fine, manly, graceful figure, and an open, intel-
ligent countenance, radiant with ^ good- humour and vivacity.
And very popular Edward Foster was. He had but one fault,
so far as 1 could hear, and that was an inaptitude to fall in
love. In vain did grave mammas sagely hint that a profes-
sional man could not expect to succeed unless married ; in
vain did jocular papas laughingly ask, how he would manage
when Mr. Lyons, Ae young lawyer, had stolen his sister for
a wife ? Edward Foster did not marry, and did succeed ;
and Miss Foster became Mrs. Lyons, and the house went on
as well as ever. Even the young ladies condescended as much
as young ladies ought to condescend, but still Edward Foster
was obdurate ; and the gossips of Belford began to suspect
that the heart which appeared so invulnerable must have been
protected by some distant and probably too ambitious attach-
ment from the charms of their fair townswomen, and even
proceeded to make inquiries as to the daughters of the various
noble families that he attended in the neighbourhood.

Time solved the enigma ; and the solution, as often happens
in these cases, lay in a spot wholly unsuspected by the parties
interested*

Few things are more melancholy and yet few more beauti-
fully picturesque than the grounds of some fine old place de-
serted by its owners, and either wholly pulled down, or con-
verted ta the coarse and common purposes of a farmsteading.
We have many such places in our neighbourhood, where
the estates (as is usually the case in all the counties within
fifty miles o/'Loiidon) have either entirely passed away from
their old proprietors, or have been so much dismembered
by the repeated purchases of less ancient but more opulent
settlers on the land, that the residence has gradually become
too expensive for the diminished ^eht*-foll ; ^and abandoned,
probably not without considerable heartiyearning, by the
owner, has been insensibly suffered to moulder away, an ante-
dated and Untimely ruin, or been degraded to the vulgar uses of
a farmhouse.

One of the most beautiful of these relics of old English
magnificence is the Court-house at Allonby, which has been
desecrated in all manner of wa^s ; first wholly deserted, then
n great measure dismantled then partly taken down, and

THE SURGEON'S COURTSHIP.

what remained of the main building — what would remain^ for
the admirable old masonry offered every sort of passive resist-
ance to the sacrilegious tools and engines of the workmen em-
ployed in the wicked task of demolition^ and was as difficult
to he pulled down as a rock ; the remains^ mutilated and dis-
figured as they were, still further disfigured by being fitted up
as a dwelling for the farmer who rented the park ; whilst the
fine old stables, coach-houses, and riding-houses were appro-
priated to the basest uses of a farmyard. I wonder that the
pigs and cows, when they looked at the magnificence about
them, the lordly crest (a deer couchant) placed over the noble
arched gateways, and on the solid pillars at the corners of the
walls, and the date (1573), which, with the name of the first
proprietor, Andrew Montfalcon,*’ surmounted all the Gothic
doors, were not ashatned of their own unfitness for so superb
a habitation.

Allonby Court was one of the finest specimens of an old
manorial residence that had ever come under my observation.
Built at the period when castellated mansions were no longer
Required for defence, it yet combined much of their solidity
and massiveness, with far more of richness, of ornament, and
even of extent, than was compatible with the main purpose of
those domestic fortresses, in which beauty and convenience
were alike sacrificed to a jealous enclosure of walls and ram-
parts. ,

Allonby had been erected by one of the magnificent cour-
tiers of a magnificent era, the despotic but splendid dynasty of
the Tudors ; and its picturesque portal, its deep bay windows,
its clustered chimneys, its hall where a coaclrknd six might
.have paraded, and its oaken staircase, up which a similar
equipage might with all convenience have driven, were even
surpassed in grandeur ^tUnd beauty by the interior fittings up ;
the splendour^ of the immense chimneypieces, the designs of
the balustrades round the galleries, the carving of the cornices,
the gilding of the panelled wainscoting, and the curious in-
laying of its oaken floors. Twenty years ago it Stood just as
it must have been when Sir Andrew Montfalcon took posses-
sion of it. Tapestry, pictures, furniture, all were the same ;
all had grown old together ; and this entire and perfect keep-
ing, this absolute absence of everything modern or new, gave
a singular harmony to the scene, it was a venerable and most

z 2

340

THE SURGEONS COURTSHIP.

perfect model of its own distant day ; and when an interested
steward prevailed on a nonresident and indolent proprietor to
consent to its demolition, there was a universal regret in the
neighbourhood. Everybody felt glad to hear that, so solidly
had it been built, the sale of the materials did not defray the
expense of pulling them down. So malicious did our love of
the old place make us.

We felt the loss of that noble structure as a personal de-
privation, and it was such ; for the scenery of a country, the
real and living landscape, is to all who have eyes to see and
taste to relish its beauties an actual and most valuable pro-
perty. To enjoy is to possess.

Still, however, the remains of Allonby are strikingly pictu-
resque.. The single wing which is standing rises like a tower
from the fragments of the half-demolished hall; and the
brambles, briers, and ivies, which grow spontaneously amongst
the ruins, mingle with the luxuriant branches of a vine which
has been planted on the south side of the building, and wreaths
its rich festoons above the gable-ends and round the clustered
chimneys, veiling and adorning, as Nature in her bounty often
docs, the desolation caused by the hand of man. Gigantic
forest-trees, oak, and elm, and beech, are scattered about the
park, which still remains unenclosed and in pasture ; a clear,
bright river glides through it, from which on one side rises an
abrupt grassy bank, surmounted by a majestic avenue of enor-
mous firs and lime-trees, planted in two distinct rows ; a chain
of large fish-ponds, some of them dried up and filled with un-
derwood, commimicates with the stream ; and flowering shrubs,
the growth of centuries, laburnum, lilac, laurel, double cherry,
and double peach, are clustering in gay profusion around the
mouldering grottos and ruined temples with which the grounds
had been adorned.

The most beautiful and most perfect of these edifices was a
high, tower-like fishing-room, overhanging the river, of which
Indeed the lower part formed a boat-house, covered with honey-
suckle, jessamine, and other creeping plants, backed by tall
columnar poplars, and looking on one side into a perfect grove
of cypress and cedar. A flaunting musk-rose grew on one
side of the steps, and a Portugal laurel on the other ; whilst a
moss-grown sundial at a little distance rose amidst a thicket of
roses, lilies, and hollyhocks, (relics of an old flower-garden,)

THE surgeon’s COURTSHIP. 341

the very emblem of the days that were gone, — a silent but
most eloquent sermon on the instability of human affairs.

This romantic and somewhat melancholy dwelling was inha-
bited by a couple as remote from all tinge of romance, or of
sadness, as ever were brought together in this world of vivid
contrast. Light and shadow were not more opposite than
were John and Martha Clewer to their gloomy habitation.

John Clewer and his good wife Martha were two persons
whom I can with all truth and convenience describe conjointly
in almost the same words, as not unfrequently happens with
a married couple in their rank of life. They were a stout,
comely, jolly, goodnatured pair, in the prime of life, who had
married early, and had grown plump, ruddy, and hardy under
the influence of ten years of changing seasons and unchanging
industry. Poor they were, in spite of his following the triple
calling of miller, farmer, and gamekeeper, and her doing her
best to aid him by baking and selling in the form of bread the
corn which he not only grew but ground, and defiling the
faded grandeur of the court by the vulgarities of cheese, red-
herrings, eggs, candles, and onions, and the thousand-and-one
nuisances which compose the omnibus concern called a village
shop. Martha’s home-haked loaves were reckoned the best in
the county, and John’s farming was scarcely less celebrated :
nevertheless, they were poor ; a fact which might partly be
accounted for by the circumstance of their ten years’ marriage
having produced eight chiidren, and partly by their being both
singularly liberal, disinterested, and generous. If a poor man
brought the produce of his children’s gleanings to John’s mill,
he was sure not only to get it ground for nothing, but to re-
ceive himself at the hands of the good miller as plentiful a
meal of beef or bacon, and as brimming a cup of strong ale, as
ever was doled out of the old buttery ; whilst Martha, who
was just John himself in petticoats, and in whom hospitality
took the feminine form of charity, could never send away the
poorest of her customers (in otlicr words, her debtors), empty-
handed, however sure she might be that the day of payment
would never arrive until the day of judgment. Rich our good
couple certainly were not, —^unless the universal love and
good-will of the whole neighbourhood may count for riches;
but content most assuredly they were, — ay, and more than
content ! If I were asked to name the happiest and merriest

z S

S4S THE BURaSON’s COURTSHIP.

persons of my acquaintance^ I think it would be John and
Martha Clewer,

With all their resemblance, there was between this honest
country couple one remarkable difference : the husband was a
man of fair common sense, plain and simple-minded, whilst
his wife had ingrafted on an equal artlessness and naiveti of
manner a degree of acuteness of perception and shrewdness of
remark, which rendered her one of the most amusing com-
panions in the county, and, added to her excellences as a
baker, had no small effect in alluring to her shop the few cus-
tomers whose regular payments enabled her to bear up against
the many who never paid at all. For my own part, — who
am somewhat of a character-studier by profession, and so com-
plete a bread-fancier that every day in the week shall have its
separate loaf, from the snowy French roll of Monday to the
unsifted home-made of Saturday at e’en, — I had a double
motive for frequenting Martha’s bakehouse, at which I had
been for some years a most punctual visitor and purchaser
until last spring and summer, when first a long absence, then
a series of honoured guests, then the pressure of engrossing
occupations, then the weather, then the roads, and at last the
having broken through the habit of going thither, kept me for
many months from my old and favourite haunt, the venerable
Court.

So long had been my absence, that the hedgerows, in which
the woodbine was at my last visit just putting forth its hardy
bluish leaves, and the elder making its earliest shoots, were
now taking their deepest and dingiest hue, enlivened only by
garlands of the traveller’s joy, the briony, and the wild-vetch ;
that the lowly primrose and the creeping violet were succeeded
by the tall mallows and St. John’s-worts, and the half-seeded
stalks of the foxglove ; and that the beans, which the women
and girls were then planting, men and boys were now about
to cut : in a word, the budding spring was succeeded by the
ripe and plenteous autumn, when, on a lovely harvest after*
noon, I at length revisited AUonby.

, The day, although exquisitely pleasant, had been rather soft
than bright, and was now closing in with that magical effect
of the evening light which lends a grace to the commonest ob-
jects, and heightens in an almost incredible degree the beauty
of those which are already beautiful. Flowers are never so

THM surgeon’s COURTSHIP. 343

glorious as in the illusive half-hour which succeeds the setting
of the sun ; and it is at that period, that a really fine piece of
natural scenery is seen to most advantage. 1 paused for a
moment before entering Martha’s territory, the shop, to look at
the romantic grounds of Allonby, all the more picturesque
from their untrained wildness ; and on the turfy terrace be-
yond the fishing-house, and just at the entrance of that dark
avenue of leafy Jime-trees and firs, whose huge straight stems
shone with a subdued and changeful splendour, now of a pur-
plish hue, and now like dimmer brass, — just underneath the
two foremost trees, strongly relieved by the deep shadow,
stood a female figure, graceful and perfect as ever was fancied
by poet or modelled by sculptor. Her white dress had all the
effect of drapery, and her pure and colourless complexion, her
flaxen ringlets almost as pale as the swan-like neck around
which they fell, her fair hand shading her eyes, and the fixed
attention of her attitude as she stood watching some of Martha’s
children at play upon the grass, gave her more the look of an
alabaster statue than of a living breathing woman. 1 never
saw grace so unconscious yet so perfect. I stood almost as
still as herself to look on her, until she broke, or I should
rather say changed the spell, by walking forward to the chil-
dren, and added the charm of motion to that of symmetry, I
then turned to Martha, who was watching my absorbed atten-
tion with evident amusement, and, without giving me time to
ask any questions, answered my thoughts by an immediate ex-
clamation : ** Ah, ma’am, I knew you’d like to look at Emma
Newton ! Many a time I’ve said to my master, ^ ’Tis a pity
that madam has not seen our Emma ! she’d be so sure to tdee
a fancy to her ! ’ And now she’s going away, poor thing !
That’s the way things fall out, after the time, as one may say.
I knew she’d take your fancy.”

Her name is Emma Newton, then } ” replied I, still
riveting my eyes on , the lovely, airy creature before me, who,
diaking back the ringlets from her fair face with a motion of
almost infantine playfulness, was skimming along the bank to
meet the rosy, laughing childr^.” And who may Emma
Newton be?”

4c you see, ma’am, her mother was my husband’s first

cousin. She lived with old Lady Lynnere as housekeeper, and
married the butler ; and this is the only child. Both father

z 4

THE surgeon’s courtship.

3U

and mother died, poor thing ! before she was four years old,
and Lady Lynn ere brought her up quite like a lady herself ;
but now she is dead, and dead without a will, and her relations
have seized all, and poor Emma is come back to her friends.
But she won’t stay with them, though/* pursued Mrs. Clewer,
half testily ; she’s too proud to be wise ; and instead of
staying with me and teaching my little girls to sew samplers,
she’s going to be a tutoress in some foreign parts beyond sea
— Russia I think they call the place — going to some people
whom Lady Lynnere knew, who are to give her a salary, and
so hinder her from being a burden to her relations, as she’s
goose enough to say — as if we could feel her little expenses ;
or, say we did — as if we would not rather go with half a meal
than part with her, sweet creature as she is ! and to go to
that cold country and come back half frozen, or die there and
never come back at all ! Howsomever,” continued Martha,
it’s no use bemoaning ourselves now ; the matter’s settled —
Aer clothes are all aboard ship, her passage taken, and 1 ’m to
drive her to Portsmouth in our little shay cart to-morrow morn-
ng. A sorrowful parting ’twill be for her and the poor chil-
dren, merry as she is trying to seem at this minute. I dare
say we shall never see her again, for she is but delicate, and
there’s no putting old heads upon young shoulders ; so instead
of buying good warm stuffs and flannels, cloth cloaks and such
things, to fence her pretty dear self against the cold, she has
laid out her little money in light summer gear, as if she was
going to stay in England and be married this very harvest :
and now she ’ll go abroad and catch her death, and we shall
never set eyes on her again.” And the tears, which during her
whole speech had stood in Martha’s eyes, fairly began to fall.

Oh, Mrs. Clewer ! you must not add to the natural pain
of parting by such a fancy as that ; your pretty cousin seems
slight and deUcate, but not unhealtny. What should make
you suppose her so ? ”

Why, ma’am, our young doctor, Mr. Edward Foster
(you know how clever he is !), was attending my master this
spring for the rheumatism, just after Emma came here. She
had a sad cough, poor thing ! when she first arrived, caught
by sitting up o’nights with old Lady Lynnere ; and Mr. Ed-
ward said she was a tender plant and required nursing herself.
He came to see her every day for two months, and quite set

THE surgeon’s COURTSHIP. 345

her up, and would not take a farthing for his pains : and I

did think — and so did my master, after I told him

But, howsomever, that's all over now, and she’s going away
to-morrow morning.”

What did you think ? ” inquired I, amused lo find Ed-
ward Foster’s affections the subject of speculation in Mrs.
Clewer’s rank of life, — what did you say that you thought
of Mr. Foster, Martha } ”

Why to be sure, ma’am — people can't help their
thoughts, you know, — and it did seem to me that he fancied
her.”

^^You mean to say that you think Mr. Edward Foster
liked your young relation — was in love with her ”•

I’o he sure I do, ma’am, — at least I did,” continued
Martha, correcting herself ; and so did my master, and so
would anybody. He that* has so much business used to come
here every day, and stay two hours at a time, when, except
for the pleasure of talking to her, there was no more need of
his coming to Emma than of his coming to me. Every day
of his life he used to come ; his very horse knew the place,
and used to stop at the gate as natural as our old mare.”

And when she got well, did he leave off coming } ”

No, no ! he came still, but not so often. He seemed not
to know his own ipind, and kept on dilly-dally, shilly-shally,
and the poor thing pined and fretted, as I could see that was
watching her, though she never said a word to me of the
matter, nor I to her ; and then this oflPer to go to Russia
came, and she accepted it, I do verily believe, partly to get as
far from him as she could. Ah ! well-a-day, it's a sad thing
when young gentlemen don’^know their own minds!” sighed
the tender-hearted Mrs. Clewer ; they don’t know the grief
they're causing I ” *

What did he say when he heard she was going abroad ? ”
asked I. That intelligence might have made him acquainted
with the state of his own affections.”

Lackat5ay, ma’am !” exclaiiped Martha, on whom a sudden
ray of light seemed to have broken, so it^ might ! and I
verily believe that to this hour he knows nothing of the
matter ! What a pity there's not a little more time llie
ship sails on Saturday, and this is Thursday night ! Let’s
look at the letter,” pursued Martha, diving into her huge

3i6

THE surgeon’s COURTSHIP.

pockets. I'm sure it said the ship. Roebuck, sailed on
Saturday morning. Where can the letter be ! exclaimed
Martha, after an unsuccessful hunt amidst the pincushions,
needle-books, thread-cases, scissors, handkerchiefs, gloves,
mittens, purses, thimbRs, primers, tops, apples, buns, and
pieces of gingerbread, with which her pockets were loaded,
and making an especial search amongst divers odd-looking
notes and memorandums, which the said receptacles contained.
" Where can the letter be ? Fetch your father, Dolly !
Saddle the grey mare, Jem ! I am going to havejthe tooth-
ache, and must see Mr. Foster directly. Tell Emma I want
to speak to her, Tom ! — No ; she shall know nothing about
it — don't.” And with these several directions to some of the
elder children, who were by this time crowding about her,
Martha bustled off, with her handkerchief held to her face, in
total forgetfulness of myself, and of the loaf, which I had paid
for but ^ not received ; and after vainly waiting for a few
minutes, during which I got a nearer view of the elegant
Emma, and thought within myself how handsome a couple
she and Mr. Foster would have made, and perhaps might still
make, with admiration of her gracefulness, pity for her sor-
rows, and interest in her fate, I mounted my pony phaeton
and took my departure.

The next morning Martha, in her shayrcart (as she called
her equipage), appeared at our door, like an honest woman,
with my loaf and a thousand apologies. Her face was tied
up, as is usual in cases of toothache, and, though she did not,
on narrow observation, look as if much ailed her, — for her
whole comely face was radiant with happiness, — I thought it
only courteous to ask what was fhe matter.

^^Lord love you, ma’am, nothing !” quoth Martha ; only
aftei^ryou went away I rummaged out the letter, and found
that the Roebuck did sail on Saturday as 1 thought, and that
if I meant to take your kind hint, no time was to be lost. So
I had the toothache immediately, and sent my master to fetch
the doctor. It was lucky his being a doctor, because bne
always can send for them at a minute’s warning, as one m^y
say. So I sent for Mr. Edward to cure my toothache, and
told him the news.”

And did he draw your tooth, Martha ?”

** Heaven help him ! not he ! he never said a word about

THE IRISH HAYlCAKEn* 347

me or my aches^ but was off like a shot to find Emma^ who
was rambling about somewhere in the moonlight to take a last
look of the old grounds. And it*s quite remarkable how little
time these matters take ; for when I went out for a bit of a
stroll half an hour afterwards, to see how the land lay, I came
bolt upon them hy accident, and found that he had popped
the question, that she had accepted him, and that the whole
affair was as completely settled as if it had been six months
about. So Emma stays to be married ; and 1 am going in
my shay-cart to fetch her trunks and boxes from Portsmouth.
No need to fling them away, though we must lose the passage-
money, I suppose ; for all her silks and muslins, and trinkum-
trankums, which L found so much fault with, will be just
right for the wedding ! To think how matters come round !"
added Martha. And what a handy thing the toothache is
sometimes ! I don't think there’s a happier person anywhere
than I am at this minute, — except, perhaps, Emma and Mr.
Edward ; and they are walking about making love under the
fir-trees in the park.”

And off she drove, a complete illustration of Prosperous
feeling, though expressed in such different words :

So glad of this, as they, I cannot be,

but my rejoicing

At nothing can be more.

THE IRISH HAYMAKER.

That our county stands right in the way from Ireland^ to
Ijondon, and of consequence from London back again to Ire-
land, is a fact well known, not only to our justices of ihe peace
in quarter session assembled, but also to the Commons House
of Parliament ; the aforesaid county, always a very needy
personage, having been so nearly ruined by the cost of passing
the Irish paupers home to their own country, that a bill is
actually before the legislature to relieve the local rates, from
tile expense of this novel species of transportation, and provide
a separate fund for the tnmsmittal of that wretched class of

348

THE IRISH HAYMAKER.

homeless poor from the metropolis to Bristol, and fVom Bristol
across the Channel.

But, besides these unfortunate absentees, whose propensity
to rove abroad in imitation of their betters occasions so much
trouble to overseers, and police-officers, and mayors of towns,
and magistrates at quarter sessions, and, finally, to the two
Housm of Lords and Commons, — besides this most miserable
race of vagrants, there are two other sets of Irish wanderers
with whom we are from our peculiar position sufficiently fa-
miliar — pigdrivers and haymakers.

Of the first, we in the country, who live amongst the by-
ways of the world3 see much ; whilst the inhabitants of Bel-
ford, folks who dwell amidst highways and turnpikes, know as
little either of the pigs or their drivers, until they see the
former served up at table in the shape of ham or bacon, as if
they lived at Timbuctoo ; inasmuch as these Irish swine
people, partly to avoid the hard road, partly to save the tolls,
invariably choose, a far more intricate track, leading through
chains of downs and commons, and back lanes, some of turf
and some of mud (which they plough up after a fashion that
makes our parish Macadamizers half crazy), until they finally
reach the metropolis by a route that would puzzle the map-
makers, but which is nevertheless almost as direct and nearly
as lawless as that pursued by a different class of bipeds and
quadrupeds in that fashionable way of breaking bones called a
steeple-chase.

Few things are more forlprn in appearance than these Irish
droves, weary and footsore, and adding the stain of every soil
they have passed through since their landing to their, large
original stock of native dirt and ugliness. English pigs are
ugly and dirty enough, Heaven knows ! but then the creatures
have a look of lazy, slovenly enjoyment about them ; they are
generally fat and always idle, and for the most part (except
when ringing or killing, or when turned by main force out of
some garden or harvest- field) contrive to lead as easy lives, and
to have as much their own way in ’ the world, as any set of
animals with whom one is acquainted : so that, unsightly as
they are, there is no unpleasant feeling in looking at them,
forming as they do the usual appendage to the busy farm or
the tidy cottage. But these poor brutes from over the water
are a misery to see ; gaunt and long, and shambling, almost

THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 349

as different in m&ke from our English pig as a greyhound
from a pointer, dragging one weary limb after the other, with
an expression of fretful suffering which, as one cannot relieve,
one gets away from as soon as possible. Even their halts
hardly seem to improve their condition : hungry though they
be, they are too tired to eat.

So far as personal appearance goes, there is no small resem-
blance between the droves and the drovers. Just as long, as
guant, and as shambling as the Irish pigs, are the Irish boys
(Anglice, men) who drive them ; with the same slow lounging
gait, and, between the sallow skin, the sunburnt hair, and the
brown frieze gr^at-coat, of nearly the same dirty complexion.
There, however, the likeness ceases. The Irish drover is as
remarkable for good-humour, good spirits, hardihood, and
light-heartedness, as his countryman, the pig, is for the con-
trary properties of peevishness and melancholy, and exhaustion
and fatigue. He goes along the road from stage to stage, from
alehouse to alehouse, scattering jokes and compliments, to the
despair of our duller clowns and the adfhiration of our laugh-
ing maidens. They even waste their repartees on one another,
a^ the following anecdote will show : —

A friend of mine, passing a public-house about a mile off,
well known as the Church-house of Aberleigh, saw two drovers
leaning against the stile leading into the churchyard, whilst
their weary charge was reposing in the highway. The sign
of the Six Bells had of course suggested a practical commen-
tary on the beer-bill. Christy,” says one, with the frothy
mug at his lips, here's luck to us!” — Ay, Pat,” drily
replied his coiQpanion, ‘‘ pot luck ! ”

Our business, however, is with the haymakers, a far more
diversified race, inasmuch as Irish people of all classes and
ages, if they can but raise money for their passage, are occa-
sionally tempted over to try their fortune in the English
harvest.

The first of these adventurers known at Belford was a cer-
tain Corny Sullivan, who had twenty years ago the luck to be
engaged as a haymaker at Denham Park, which, in spite of
its spacious demesne, its lodges, and its avenue, is actually
within the precincts of the Borough. Now the owner of
Denham, being one of the kindest persons in the world, was
especially good to the. poor Irishman, — allowed him a barn

^50 TUB IRISH HAYMAKER.

fall of clean straw for his lodgings and potatoes and butter-
milk at discretion for his board* — so that Corny was enabled
to carry home nearly the whole of his earnings to the wife
and the childer ; ** and, having testified his gratitude to his
generous benefactor by brining the ensuing season a pocketful
of seed potatoes, — such potatoes as never before were grown
upon English ground, — has ever since been accounted a great
public benefactor ; the potatoes — rale blacks,” Corny calls
them ( I suppose because they are red) — having been very
generally diffused by their liberal possessor.

Along with the rale blacks” Coiney brought a brother
haymaker, Tim Murphy by name, who shared his barn, his
allowance of buttermilk, and his dole of potatoes, and more
than partook' ^f his popularity. Corny was an oldish.looking
hollow-eyed man, with a heavy slinging gait, a sallowish,
yellowish complexion, a red wig much the worse for wear,
and a long frieze coat, once grey, fastened at the neck by a
skewer, with the vacant sleeves hanging by his side as if he
had lost both his aAis. His English (though he was said
^^to have beautiful Irish'’) was rather perplexing than amus-
ing ; and, upon the whole, he was so harmless and inoffen-
sive, — so quite, as he himself would have phrased it — that
Mary Marshall, the straw-haUmaker in Bristol-street, who,
on the first rumour of an Irish haymaker, had taken a walk to
Benham to see how Sally the housemaid liked a bonnet which
she had turned for her, was heard to declare that, but for the
wig and the big coat, the man was just like another man, and
not worth crossing the road to look after,

Tim Murphy was another guess sort of persons. Tall,
athletic, active, and strong, with a bright blue eye, a fair yet
manly complexion, high features, a resolute open countenance,
and a head of curling brown hair, it would have been difficult
to select a finer specimen of a young and spirited Irishman ;
whilst his good-humour, his cheerfulness, the prompitude
with which he put forth his strength, whether in work or play,
(for at the harvesthome supper he danced down two Scotch-
women and outgang a Bavarian broom-girl,) and, added to
these accomplishments, his decided turn for gallantry, and the
abundance and felicity of his compliments rendered him a
favourite with high and low.

The lasses, above all, were his devoted admirers; and so

THE IRISH HAYMAKER.

351

skilfully had he contrived to divide his attentions, that when,
declining to return to Ireland with his comrade at the end of
the hay season, he lingered, first for the harvest, then for the
after-math, and lastly for the potato-digging, not only the
housemaid and the kitchenmaid at the Park, but Harriet
Bridges the gardener’s daughter, and Susan Stock of the
Lodge, openly imputed his detention in England to the power
of her own peculiar charms.

Whether the damsels were actually and actively deceived
by the honeyed words of this Lothario of the Emerald Isle,
or whether he merely allowed them to deceive themselves,
and was only passively guilty, I do not pretend to determine
— far less do I undertake to defend him. On the contrary, I
hold the gentleman to have been in either case a most inde-
fensible flirt, since it was morally impossible but three at
least of the unhappy quartet must be doomed to undergo the
pangs of disappointed love. I am sorry to say, that Tim
Murphy was far from seeing this in a proper point of view.

Arrah, Mrs. Cotton, dear ! ” (said he to the housekeeper
at Denham, who was lepturing him on turning the maidens’
heads, especially the two under her management,) — Arrah
now, what am I to do ? Sure you would not have a man
marry four wives' at oncet, barring he were a Turk or a black-
amore ! But if you can bring the faymales to *gree, so as to
toss up heads or tails, or draw lots as to which shall be the
woman that owns me, and then to die off, one after another,
mind you, according to law, why Tm the boy for ’em all —
and bad luck to the hindmost! Only let them meet and
settle the matter in pace and quiteness, barring scratching and
fighting, and I’ll come at a whistle.”

And off he walked, humming Garryowen,” leaving Mrs.
Cotton rather more provoked than it suited her. dignity to ac-
knowledge.

About this time, — that is to say, on a Saturday afternoon
towards the middle of November, Mar]j^ Marshall and Mrs.
Drake, the widowed aunt with whom she lived, were sitting
over their tea in a room no bigger than a closet, behind a little
milliner’s shop in one of the smallest housed in Bristol-street.
Tiny as the shop was, the window was still too large for the
stock with which it was set forth ; consisting of two or three
bonnets belonging to Mary’s business, and two or three caps,

352

THE IBIEH HAYUAKER.

with half-a-dozen frills and collars^ and a few balls of cotton
and pieces of tape^ as Mrs. Drake’s share of the concern :
added to which^ conspicuously placed in the centre pane^ was a
box of tooth-powder, a ghastly-looking row of false human teeth,
and an explanatory card, informing the nobility and gentry
of Belford and its vicinity that Doctor Joseph Vanderhagen,
of Amsterdam, odontist to a round dozen of highnesses and
high mightinesses, was fora limited period sojourning at Mrs.
Drake's in Bristol-street, and would undertake to extract teeth
in the most difficult cases without pain, or danger, or delay, —
so that, as the announcement expressed it, the operation
should be in itself a pleasure, — and to furnish sets better
than real, warranted to perform all the offices of articulation
and mastication in an astonishing manner, for a sum so small
as to surprise the most rigid economist."

Where Mrs. Drake contrived to put her lodgers might
reasonably be matter of surprise to the best contriver; and in-
deed an ill- wishing neighbour, a rival at once in lodging-
letting and millinery, maliciously suggested that they must
needs sleep in her empty bandboxes. But the up-stair closets,
which she was pleased to call her first Hoor, were of some
celebrity in the town — to those in search of cheap and genteel
apartments, on account of the moderate rent, the cleanliness,
and the civil treatment ; to the inhabitants and other observers,
on account of the kind of persons whom they were accustomed
to see there, and who were ordinarily itinerants of the most
showy and notorious description. French stays and French
shoes bad dternately occupied the centre pane: and it had
displayed^ in quick succession, pattern-pictures by artists who
undertook to teach drawing as expeditiously and with as little
trouble as l^octor Vanderhagen drew teeth ; and likenesses . in
profile, executed by painters to whom, without any disrespect,
may be assigjaed the name of The Black Masters," whose
portraits rivalled in cheapness the false grinders of the odontist.
She had accbmmodated a glass-spinner and his furnaces, a
showman and his dancing-dogs, a wandering lecturer, a she-
fortuneteller, a he- ventriloquist, and a vaulter on the tight-
rope. Her last inrhat^s had been a fine flashy foreign couple,
all dirt and tinsel, rags and trumpery, who called themselves
Monsieur and Madame de Gour billon, stuck a guitar and a
flute in the window, and announced what they were pleased to

the: IRISH HAYMAKER.

35S

call a " Musical Promenade” in the Townhall. The name
was ingeniously novel and mysterious^ and made fortune, as
our French neighbours say : and poor Mrs. Drake walked
herself off her feet in accompanying Madame round the town
to dispose of their tickets, and secure the money. When the
night of the performance arrived, the worthy pair were found to
have decamped. They left Bristol Street under pretence of
going to meet an eminent singer, whom they expected, they
said, by the London stage ; and were afterwards discovered to
have mounted the roof of a. Bath coach bound to London,
having contrived, under different pretences, to remove their
musical instruments and other goods and chattels ; thus re-
newing the old hoax of the bottle-conjuror, at the expense of
the weary audience, who were impatiently pacing the Town-
hall — of two fiddlers, engaged for the purpose of completing
the accompaniments — of the man who had engaged to furnish
lights and refreshments — of poor Mrs. Drake, who, in addition
to her bill for lodgings, had disbursed many small sums, in
the way of provisions and other purchases, which she could ill
afford to lose — and of her good-humoured niece, Mary Mar-
shall, whom Madame had not only cheated out of an expensive
bonnet by buying that for which she never meant to pay, but
had also defrauded of her best shawl in the way of borrowing.

It was enough,” as Mrs. Drake observed, to warn her
against harbouring foreigners in her house, as long as she
lived. No painted Madam es or Mounseers, with bobs in their
ears, should cheat her again.”

How it happened that, in the teeth of this wise resolution,
the next tenant of the good widow’s first flpor should be Doc-
tor Joseph Vanderhagen, was best known to herself. For
certain, the doctor had no bobs in his ears, and no painted
Madame in his company ; and, for as much a Dutchman as
he called himself, had far more the air of a Jew 'from White-
chap^than of a citizen from Amsterdam. He was a dark
sallow man, chiefly remarkable for a pair of green spectacles,
and a dark blue cloak of singular amplitude, both of which
he wore rather as articles of decoration than of convenience.
And certainly the cloak, arranged in most melodramatic
drapery, and the spectacles, adjusted with a peculiarly knowing
air, had no small effect in arresting the attention of "our Bel-
fordians, and still more in attracting the farmers, and their

A A

354 THE IRISH HAYMAKER.

Yriyet and daughters, on a Saturday morning, when the
doctor was sure to plant himself on one side of the market-
place, and seldom failed to excite the curiosity of the passers-
by. Doctor Joseph ^Vanderhagen, in his cloak and his
spectacles, was worth a score of advertisements and a whole
le^on of bill-stickers. It was enough to bring on a fit of the
toothache to look at him.

In other respects, the man was perfectly well conducted ;
cheated nobody except in the way of his profession ; was civil
to his hostess, and very well disposed to fall in love with her
niece; making, according* to Mrs. Drake's account (who
amused herself sometimes with reckoning up the list on her
fingers), the two-ahd-twentieth of Mary Marshall's beaux.

How this little damsel came to have so many admirers it is
difficult to say, for she had neither the beauties nor the faults
which usually attract a multitude of lovers. She was not
pretty — that is quite certain ; nor was she what is generally
called a flirt, particularly in her rank of life, being perfectly
modest and quiet in her demeanour, and peculiarly unshowy
in her appearance. Still there was a charm, and a great charm,
in her delicate and slender figure, graceful and pliant in every
motion — in the fine expression of her dark eyes, with their
flexible brows and long eyelashes — in a smile combining much
sweetness with some archness — and in a soft low voice, and a
natural gentility of manner, which would have rendered it the
easiest thing in the world to have passed off Mary Marshall for
a young lady.

Little did Mary ^arshall meditate such a deception ! She,
whilst her aunt was leisurely sipping her fourth cup of tea,
lecturing her all the while after that approved but disagreeable
fashion which aunts and godmammas, and other advisers by
profession, call talking to young people for their good, — she
having turned down her empty tea-cup, and given it three
twirls according to rule, was now occupied in examin^ the
position which the dregs of tea remaining in it had assumed,
and t^ing to tell her own fortune, or rather to accommodate
what she saw to what she wished, by those very fallacious but
very conformable indications.

Now, Mary, can there be any thing so provoking as your
wanting to go to Denham Farm to-night, in such a fog, and
almost dark, just to carry Charlotte Higg's straw bonnet^?

THE IRISH HATHA KER.

355

It will be four o'clock before you are ready to set off, and
thieves about^ and you coughing all night and all day ! Any
body would think you were crazy. What would your grand
relation and godmother Madam Cotton say, I wonder, if she
knew of your tramping about after dark ? — She that warned
me not to let you go into the way of any of those Denham chaps,
especially those Lanes, who aremo better than so many poachers
and vagrants. I should not wonder if that tall fellow Charles
Lane came to be hanged. What would Mrs. Cotton say to
your going right amongst them, knowing as you do that Charles
Lane and Tom Hill fought aboiit you last Michaelmas that
ever was ? What would Mrs. Cotton say, she that means to
give you a power of money, if you are but discreet and prudent
as a young woman ought to be ? You know yourself that
Madam Cotton hates Charles Lane, and would be as mad as a
March hare."'

Look aunt,” said Mary, still poring over her tea-cup and
showing the hieroglyphics round the bottom to her aunt, —

Look ! if there is not the road I'm going to-night as plainly
marked as in a picture. Look there ! the tall chimneys at
Bristol Place ; and the flat, low houses on the terrace ; and
the two lamp-posts at the turnpike, and the avenue, and the
lodges, and then the turn round the Park to the Farm,
look ! and then a tall stranger.”

That's Charles Lane ! ” interrupted Mrs. Drake ; — he’s
as tall as the Moniment, and, as Madatn Cotton says, no
better than a thief. He'll certainly come to be hanged —
everybody says he has not done a stroke of work this twelve-
month, and lives altogether by poachin^lbr thieving. And
Tom Hill is noted for having beaten his own poor old mother,
so that he's no better. And the town chaps are pretty near
as bad,** continued Mrs. Drake, going on with the beadroU of
Mary’s lovers ; “for Will Meadows, the tinman, he tipples ;
and 8am Fielding, the tailor, he plays all day and all night at

four-corners ; and Bob Henshall, the shoemaker lad, he

But are you really going ? ” pursued Mrs. Drake, perceiving
that Mary had laid down her tea-cup and was tying on her
bonnet. “ Are you really going out all by yourself this foggy
evening ? ”

“ Yes, dear aunt ! I promised Charlotte Higgs her bonnet
~ she must have it to go to church to-morrow ; and I shall

A A 2

356

THB IRISH flAYMAKBR.

just fall in with the children going back from school, and I’ll
have nothing to say to Charles Lane or Tom Hill, and I'll be
back in no time^'* cried Mary, catching up her bandbox and
preparing to set off just as Dr. Vanderhagen entered the shop.

If you will go, take my shawl,” said Mrs. Drake. 'Tis
not so good as that which Mrs. Cotton gave you and the French
Madam cheated you out of, but 'twill keep out the damp ; —
don't be obstinate, there’s a dear, but put it on at once.”

Meese had bedere take my cloak,” interrupted the doctor,
gallantly flinging its ample folds over her slight flgure, and
accompanying the civility bjia pressing offer of his own escort ;
which Mary declined, accepting by way of compromise the
loan of the mysterious mantle, and sallying forth into Bristol-
street just as the lamps were lighting.

It's lucky it’s so dark,” thought Mary to herself, as she
tripped lightly along, carefully avoiding the school-children,
— it's well it’s so dark, for everybody knows the doctor's
cloak, and one should not like to be seen in it ; though it was
very kind in him to lend it to me, that I must say ; and it's
ungrateful in me to dislike him so much, only that people
can’t help their likings or dislikings. Now my aunt, she
likes the doctor; but I don't quite think she wants me to
marry him either, because of his being a foreigner. She can’t
abide foreigners since the Mounseer with the ear-bobs. But
to think of her fancying that I cared for Charles Lane ! ”
thought Mary, smiling to herself very saucily, as she walked
rapidly up the avenue. Charles Lane indeed 1 I wonder
what she and Mrs. Cotton would say if they knew the truth ! ”
thought Mary, siglpng and pursuing her reverie. Tim says
he’s a favourite with the old lady ; but then he’s so poor, and
a sort of a foreigner into the bargain, and there's no telling
what they might say ; so it's as well they should have Charles
Lane in their heads. But where can Tim be this dark,
unked night ? ” thought poor Mary, as, leaving the lodges to
the right, she turned down a lonely road that led to the Farm,
about a quarter of a mile distant. He promised to meet
me at the park-gate at half-past four ; and here it must be
nearer to flve, and no signs of the gentleman. Some people
would be frightened,” said the poor trembling lass to herself,
trying to /eel valiant, — some people would be frightened
out of their wits, walking all by diemselves after sunset, in

THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 357

•

such a fog that one can*t see an inch before one, and in such
a lonesome way, and thieves about.”

And just at this point of her soliloquy a noise was heard
in the hedge, and a ruffian seizing hold of her, demanded her
money or her life.

Luckily the villain had only grasped the thick cloak ; and
undoing the fastenings with instinctive rapidity, Mary left the
mantle in his hands and ran swiftly towards the Farm, hardly
able, from the beating of her heart, to ascertain whether she
was pursued, though she plainly heard the villain swearing at
her escape. In less than two minutes, a pleasanter sound
greeted her ears, in the shape of a well-known whistle ; and
with the ejaculation Oh, Tim ! why did not you meet me
as you promised ? ** she almost fell into his extended arms.

Is it why I did not meet you, Mary dear ? responded
Tim tenderly ; sorrow a bit could I come before now any-
how ! There has been a spalpeen of a thief, who has kilt
John the futman, and murdered Mrs. Cotton, who were walk-
ing this way from Belford to the Park by cause of its short-
ness ; and he knocked John on the head with a bludgeon,
and stole a parcel of law dades belonging to the master ; and
the master is madder nor a mad bull, because he says that all
his estates and titles lays in the parcel — which seems to be
sure a mighty small compass for them to be in. And the
cowardly spalpeen, after dinging John under the ditch, mur-
dered Mrs. Cotton, and tore off her muff tippet, and turned
her pockets inside out — them great panniers of pockets of
hers — and stole all her thread-cases, a^d pincushions, and
thimbles, and scissors, and a needle-book worked by some
forrin queen, and a bundle of love-letters tv/o-and-forty years
ould ; — think of that, Mary dear ! Poor ould lady ! she was
young in them days. So she*s as mad as the master. And
they’ve sent all the world over to offer a reward for the thief,
and raise the country ; and I’m away to the town to fetch
the mayor and corporation, and the poliss and the constable,
and all them people ; for it’s hanged the rogue must be as
sure as he’s alive, — though I suppose he’s far enough off by
this time.”

He was here not five minutes ago,” replied Mary,'^' and
robbed me of the doctors cloak — Doctor Vanderhagen; — so
pray let us go on to the Farm, dear Tim, for fear of ^his
A A 3

358 THE IRISH HAYMAKER.

knocking you down too, and murdering you, like poor John
and Mrs. Cotton ; though, if she’s dead, I don’t understand
how she can be so mad for the loss of the love-letters ! ”

Dead ! no — only kilt ! Sure the woman may be mur-
dered without being dead ! And as for the knocking me down.
I’ll give the thief free lave to do that same — knock me down,
and pickle me, and ate me into the bargain, if he can. I’m
a Connaught boy, as he’ll find to his cost and not a slip of
a futman like John, or an ould faymale like Mrs. Cotton, all
the while maning no disrespect to either ; and my twig of
a tree ” (flourishing a huge cudgel) is as good as his bit of
oak, any day. So* come along Mary dear. I undertuk for
the mayor and the poliss and the constable ; and sorrow a
reward do I want, for the villain desarves hanging worse nor
ever for frightening you and staling the Doctor’s big cloak.”

So, in spite of Mary’s reluctance, they pursued the way to
Beiford. Tim loitered a little as they got near to where Mary
thought she had been robbed, — for she had been too much
frightened and the evening was too dark to allow of her being
very positive in the matter of locality ; and although the fog
and the increasing darkness made his seeing the thief almost
impossible, Tim could not help loitering and thumping the
hedge (or as he called it, the ditch) with his great stick, pretty
much after the fashion of sportsmen beating for a hare. He
had, however nearly given up the pursuit, when Mary stum,
bled over something that turned out to be her own bandbox,
containing Charlotte Higgs’s bonnet, which she had never
missed before, and at the same moment close beside her, just
within the bushes which her lover had been beating, came the
welcome sound of a violent fit of sneezing.

“ Luck be with you, barring it’s the snuff! ” ejaculated our
friend Tim, following the sound, and dragging out the un-
happy sneezer by Dr. Vanderhagen’s cloak, which he had
probably been induced to assume for the convenience of car-
liage : " luck be with you I ” exclaimed Tim, folding the
strong broadcloth round and round his prisoner, whom he
rolled up like a bale of goods, whilst he hallooed to one party
advancing with lanterns from the farm, and another running
with a candle from the lodge, — dim lights which, when seen
horn a distance moving through the fog, no trace of the bearers

THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 359

being visible^ had something of the appearance of a set of jack-
^o-lan terns.

As they advanced, however, each faintly illuminating its
own small circle, and partially dispelling the obscurity, it was
soon discovered, aided by the trampling of many footsteps
and the confused sound of several voices, that a considerable
number of persons were advancing to the assistance of our
Irish friend.

Little did he need their aid. The Connaught boy and his
shillelah would have been equal to the management of half-a<*
dozen foot-pads in his single person.

Hand me that dark-lantern, John Higgs, till we take a
look at this jontleman's beautiful countenance,’’ quoth Tim.

She gives as much light,*' continued Tim, apostrophizing
the lantern, as the moon when it’s set, — and that's none at
all! Lie quite** added he, addressing his prisoner, ‘^lie
quite, can’t ye ? and take the world asy till we sarch ye da.
cently. Arrah ! there’s the coach parcel, with them dades and
titles of the master’s. And there’s Madam Cotton’s big pin-
cushion and all her trim trams hid in the ditch — ay, this is
them ! Hould the lantern a bit lower ; — here's the hussey,
and there’s the love-letters, wet through, at the bottom of the
pool — all in a sop, poor ould lady ! I’m as sorry as ever
was for the sopping of them love-letters, because I dare say,
being used to ’em so long, she’d fancy ’em better nor new
ones. Arrah ! an’t you ashamed of yourself to look at that
housewife, worked by a forrin queen, all over mud as it is ?
Can’t you answer a civil question you spalpeen ? Ought not
you to be ashamed of yourself, first for thieving, then for
sopping them poor dear love.letters, and then for being such
a fool as to stay here to be caught ^like a fox in a trap ? I
suppose you thought the fog was not dark enough, and so
waited for the stars to shine, — eh, Mr. Lane ? ”

Mr. Lane ! Charles Lane I ” exclaimed Mary, stooping
to examine the prostrate thief. Yes, it really is Charles
Lane ! Jlow strange ! ” added she, thinking of her aunt’s
prediction, and of the tall stranger in the tea-cup to wliich
she had given so different an interpretation — ^^how very
strange ! ” .

Nay,” rejoined Mr. Denham, advancing into the circle, I
have long feared that poaching, and drunkenness, and idle-
A A 4

S60 THE IRISH 1IAY3IAKER.

ness^ would bring him to some deplorable catastrophe, But^
Tim, you are fairly entitled to the reward that I was about to

offer ; so come with me to the Park, and

Not I, your honour ! It’s little Mary here that was the
cause of catching the thief, — little Mary and the doctor’s
cloak ; and it’s them, — that is to say, Mary and the cloak, —
that’s entitled to the reward.*'

But, my good fellow, I must do something to recompense
the service you have rendered me by yotir spirit and bravery.

Follow me to the house, and then ”

Sure I’d follow your honour to the end of the world, let
alone the house ! , But,” continued Tim, approaching Mr.
Denham and speaking in a confidential whisper ; sorrow a
bit of a reward do I want, except it’s little Mary herself ; and
if your honour would be so good as to spake a word for us to
Mrs. Cotton and Mrs. Drake,” added Tim, twirling his hat,
and putting on his most insinuating manner — if your
honour would but spake a good word — becase Mrs. Drake
calls me a forriner, and Mrs. Cotton says Tin a de^aiver, —

one word from your honour pursued Tim coaxingly.

And what does Mary say ? inquired Mr. Denham.

Is it what little Mary says, your honour Arrah, now
ask her ! But it’s over-shy she is !” exclaimed Tim, throw-
ing his arm round Mary’s slender waist as she turned away in
blushing confusion ; '^she’ll not tell her mind afore company.
But the best person to ask is ould Mrs. Cotton, who told me
this very morning that 1 was a de9aiver, and that there was
not a faymale in the parish who would say No to a wild Irish-
man. Best ask her. She’ll be out of her flurry and her
tantrums by this time ; for I left her making tay out of cofiee,
and drinking a drop of dark-coloured whisky — cherry-bounce
the futman called it — to comfort her after the fright she got,
poor cratur! Jistask her. It’s remarkable,” continued Tim,
as obeying his master’s kind commands, he and the fair
damsel followed Mr. Denham to the house, under a comforU
able persuasion that the kind word would be spoken ; it’s
remarkable, anyhow,” said Tim, that them dades and titles,
and the pincushion, which would not have minded a wettinga
halfpenny, should be high and dry in the ditch ; and that te
forrin queen’s needle-book, and them ould ancient love-lettes
should have the luck of a sopping. Well, it was no fault of

MARK BRIDGMAN. S6l

ours, Mary dear, as his honour can testify. The spalpeen of
a thief desarves to be sent over the water, if it was only in
respect to them love-letters."

And BO saying, the Irishman and his fair companion reached
the mansion. And how Mr. Denham pleaded, and whether
Mrs, Cotton and Mrs. Drake, the ould faymales," as Tim
irreverently called them, proved tender-hearted or obdurate, I
leave the courteous reader to settle to his own satisfaction : for
my own part, if I were called on to form a conjecture, it
would be, that the Irishman proved irresistible, and the lovers
were made happy.

MARK BRIDGMAN.

One of the persons best known in Belford was an elderly
gentleman seldom called by any other appellation than that of
Mark Bridgman — or, as the irreverent youth of the place
were sometimes wont to style him. Picture Mark,

Why he should be spoken of in a manner so much more
familiar than respectful, were difficult to say ; for certainly
there was nothing in his somewhat shy and retiring manner to
provoke familiarity, whilst there was everything in his mild
and venerable aspect to secure respect.

True it was, that the grave and old-fashioned garments in
which his slight and somewhat bent figure was constantly
arrayed, betrayed a smallness of worldly means which his
humble dwelling and still more humble establishment — for
his whole household consisted of one ancient serving maiden,
still more slight and bent than her master — did not fail to
corroborate ; and perhaps that impression of poverty, aided by
the knowledge of his want of patrimonial distinction, (for he
was the son of a tradesman in the town,) and still more, his
having been known to the older inhabitants from boyhood, and
resided amongst them for many years, might serve to coun-»
teract the effect of the diffident and somewhat punctilious
manner which in general ensures a return of the respect that
it evinces, as well as of a head and countenance which a painter

S6&

MARK RRIDOMAN.

would have delighted to delineate — so strikingly fine was the
high, bald, polished forehead, so delicately carved the features,
and so gentle and amiable the expression.

Mark Bridgman had been the youngest of two sons of a
Belford tradesman, who being of the right side in politics,
(which in those days meant the Tory side,) contrived to get
^is his youngest son a clerkship in a public office ; whilst his
elder hope, active, bustling, ambitious, and shrewd, pushed
his fortune in his father s line of business in London, and
accumulated during a comparatively short life so much money
that his only surviving son was enabled at his death to embark
in bolder speculations,. and was at the time of which 1 write,
a flourishing merchant in the city.

Mark was, on his side, so entirely free from the visions of
avarice, that, as soon as he had remained long enough in his
office to entitle him to such a pension as should enable himself
and his solitary servant-maid to exist in tolerable comfort, he
forsook the trade of quill-driving, and returned to his native
town to pass the remainder of his days in one of the smallest
dwellings in Mill Lane. It was true that he had received
some thousands with a wife who had died within a few
months of their marriage, and that he had also received 9,
legacy of about the same amount from his father ; but these
sums were not to be taken into the account of his ways and
means, inasmuch as they bad been spent after a fashion
which, if the disembodied spirit retain its ancient prejudices,
might almost have drawn that thriving ironmonger back into
this wicked world to express, in ghostly form, the extent of
his indignation.

Be it wise or not, the manner in which these moneys had
been expended not only served to explain his honourable nick-
name, but had rendered Mark Bridgman’s back parlour in
MiU Lane one of the lions of Belford.

In that small room, — small with reference to its purpose,
but very large as compared with the rest of the dwelling, and
lighted from the top, as all buildings for pictures ought to be,
-^in that little back parlour were assembled some half-dozen
chefs-d’oeuvre, that the greatest collection of the world might
have been proud to have included amongst the. choicest of its
tieasures : a landscape by Both, all sunshine ; one by Ruys-
daely all dew ; a land^storm by Wouvermans, in looking at

MARK BRIDGMAN.

which one seemed to feel the wind, and folded one’s raiment
about one involuntarily ; a portrait of Mieris by himself, in
which, inspired perhaps by vanity, he united his own finish
to the graces of Vandyke ; a Venus by Titian — need one say
more ? — and two large pictures on the two sides of the room,
of which, all unskilled in art as I confessedly am, I must
needs attempt a description, the more inadequate perhaps
because the more detailed.

One was a landscape with figures, by Salvator Rosa, called,
I believe, after some scriptural story, but really consisting of
a group of Neapolitan peasants, some on horseback, some on
foot, defiling through a pass in the mountains — emerging,
as it were, from darkness into light. The effect of this mag-
nificent picture cannot be conveyed by words. The spectator
seemed to be in darkness too, looking from the dusky gloom
of the cavernous rocks and overhanging trees into the light
and air, the figures thrown out in strong relief ; and all this
magical edect produced, as it seemed, almost without colour
— a little blue, perhaps, on the edge of the palette — by the
mere force of chiaroscuro. One never sees Salvator Rosa’s
compositions without wonder; but this landscape, in its
simple grandeur, its power of fixing itself on the eye, the
memory, the imagination, seems to me to transcend them alL

The other was an historical picture by Guercino -r- David
with the head of Goliath, — a picture which, in spite of the
horror of the subject, is the very triumph of beauty. Tho
ghastly face, which is so disposed that the eye can get away
from it, serves to contrast and relieve the splendid and luxu<*
riant youth and grace of the other figures. David, the tri-
umphant warrior, the inspired poet, glowing with joy and
youthful modesty, is fitly accompanied by two female figures ;
the one a magnificent brunette, beating some oriental instru-
ment not unlike a drum, with her dark hair flowing down on
each side of her bright and beaming countenance ; the other,
a fair young girl, lightly and exquisitely formed, leniing her
lovely face over a music-book, with just such a sweet uncon-
sciousness, such a mixture of elegance and innocence, as one
shotild wish to see in a daughter of one’s own. A great poet
once said of that picture, that ^‘it was the Faun with colour
and most surely it is not possible even for Grecian art to
carry farther the mixture of natural and ideal gracefulness*

364 MARK BRIDGMAN.

These pictures^ for which he had over and over again
refused a sum of money almost too large to mention, formed,
together with two or three chairs so placed as best to display
to the sitter the Salvator and the Guercino, the sole furniture
of Mark Bridgman’s back parlour. He had purchased them
himself, during two or three short trips to the Continent, at
Rome, at Naples, at Vienna, at Antwerp, and having expended
his last shilling in the formation of his small but choice selec-
tion, sat himself quietly down in Mill Lane, without any
thought of increase or exchange, enjoying their beauties with
a quiet delight which (although he was kindly anxiously to
give to those who . loved paintings the pleasure of seeing his)
hardly seemed to require the praise and admiration of others
to stimulate his own pleasure in their possession. It was a
very English feeling. Some of the Dutch burgomasters had,
in days of yore, equally valuable pictures in equally small
rooms : but there was more of vanity in the good Hollanders ;
vanity of country, for their paintings were Dutch, — and
vanity of display, for their collections were known and visited
by all travellers, and made a part, and a most ostensible part,
of their riches.

Our good Englishman had no such ambition. He loved
his pictures for themselves ; and if he had any pride in
knowing himself to be their possessor, showed it only in not
being at all ashamed of his poverty, — in thinking, and seem-
ing to think, that the owner of those great works of art could
afford to wear a tliread-bare coat and live in a paltry dwelling.
Even his old servant Martha seemed to have imbibed the same
feeling, — loved the Guercino and the Salvator as fondly as
her master did, spoke of them with the same respect, ap-
proached them with the same caution, and dusted the room as
reverently as if she had been in presence of a crowned queen.

In these pictures Mark Bridgman lived and breathed He
cultivated no associates, visited nobody, read no books, looked
at no newspapers, and, except in the matter of his own paint-
ings, showed little of the common quality termed curiosity or
the rarer one called taste.

Two acquaintances indeed he had made during his long
sojourn at Belford, and their society he had enjoyed with the
relish of a congenial spirit ; Louis Duval, to whom he had
during his boyhood shown great kindness, and who had stu-

MARK BRIDGMAN.

365

died hia Guercino with a love and admiration rivalling that
which he felt for Mrs. St\ Eloy’s Vandyke ; and Mr, Carlton,
who was a professed lover of pictures, and [had '^not failed to
find his out during his two years* sojourn in Belford. And
when the death of Mrs. St. Eloy left Louis master of the Nun-
nery, and his marriage with our young friend Hester (of which
happy event I rejoice to be enabled to inform my readers)
brought the two families together, sometimes at the Nunnery,
and sometimes at Cranley Park, the old man was tempted out
oftener than he or his maid Martha had thought possible.

Another person had tried to form an intimacy with him —
no less a personage than Mr. King Harwood, who liked no-
thing better than flourishing and showing off* before a great
picture, and descanting on the much finer works of art which
he had seen abroad and at home. But gentle and placid as
our friend Mark was, he could not stand King Harwood ; he
was not man of the world enough to have learned the art of
hearing a coxcomb talk nonsense about a favourite object with-
out wincing. To hear his paintings mispraised, went to his
heart ; so he fairly fled the field, and whenever Mr. King
Harwood brought a party to Mill Lane, left Martha, who, be-
sides being far less sensitive, had Sir Joshuas advantage of
being a little deaf, to play the part of cicerone to his collection.

His nephew Harry also — a kind, frank, liberal, open-
hearted man, to whom during his boyhood our connoisseur
had been an indulgent and generous uncle, — paid him great
attention ; and of him and his excellent wife, and promising
family, Mark Bridgman was perhaps as fond as of any thing
in this world, excepting his pictures, which for certain he
loved better than any body. Indeed for many years he had
cared for nothing else ; and the good old man sometimes won-
dered how he had been beguiled lately into bestowing so much
affection upon creatures of flesh and blood, — since, besides
his kinsman and his family, he had detected himself in feeling
something very like friendship towards Louis and Hester,
Mr. Carlton and old Martha, and even towards Mrs. Kinlay
and Mrs. Duval. To be sure, Louis was a man of genius,
and Mr. Carlton a man of taste, and Martha a faithful old
servant ; and as to Hester, why every body did love Hepter, —
and besides, she was a good deal like the young girl with the
music-book in his Guercino, and that accounted for his taking
a fancy to her. It is remarkable that the good people who

MARK BRIDOMAN.

loVed Heater^ they could hardly tell why, used generally to
conjure up some likeness to reconcile themselves to themselves
for being caught by her fascinations. I myself think that she
resembles a young friend of my own. — But we must come
back to our story.

The uncle and nephew had not met for a longer time than
usual, when, one bright April morning as Mark was sitting in
bis back parlour admiring for the thousandth time the deeply
tinted and almost breathing lips of the Titian Venus, a hasty
knock was heard at the door, and Harry Bridgman rushed into
the room, pale, hurried, agitated, trembling^ and before his
kinsman, always nervous and slow of speech, could inquire
what ailed him, poured forth a tale of mercantile embarrass-
ments, of expected remittances, and lingering argosies and
merciless creditors, that might have shamed the perplexities
of Antonio at the hour when Shylock claimed his money or
his bond.

I may have been imprudent in giving these acceptances,''
(said poor Harry,) hut I looked for letters from the house
at Hamburg, which ought to have been here the 24th, and
bills from St. Petersburgh, which should have arrived a fort-
night since, and would have covered the whole amount. Then
the Flycatcher from Honduras has been expected these ten
days, with logwood and mahogany, and the Amphion from
the Levant, has been looked for full three weeks, with a cargo
of Smyrna fruit, that would have paid every farthing that I
owe in the world. Assets to the value of six times my debts
are on the seas, and yet such is the state of the money-market,
that I have been unable to raise the ten thousand pounds
which must he paid to-morrow, and which not being paid,
the rascal who holds my acceptances, and who owes me an old
grudge, will strike a docket, and all will be swept away by
a commission of bankruptcy — all swallowed up in law and
knavery: my wife's heart broken, my children ruined, my
creditors cheated, and I myself disgraced for ever ! ” And
Harry Bridgman, a hne hearty man in the middle of life, ac-
tive, bold, and vigorous in mind and body, laid his hands upon
the bdck of a chair, sunk his face into them, and wept aloud.

Ten thousand pounds!" ejaculated the poor old man, his
venerable bUd head shaking as if with palsy — ten thousand
pounds ! " ^

" Yes, sir I ten thousand pounds,” replied Harry. " God

MARK BRIDGMAN.

867

forgive me/’ added he, for distressing you in this manner !
But I am doomed to be a grief to all whom I love. 1 hardly
know why I came here — only I could not stay at home. I
could not look on poor Maria’s face, or the innocent children.
And 1 thought you ought to know what was about to happen,
that you might go to Cranley Park, or the Nunnery, till the
name had been in the Gazette and the people had done talk-
ing. But I ’ll go now, for 1 cannot bear to see you so dis-
tressed : I would almost as soon face Maria and the children.
Good-b’ye, my dear uncle ! God bless you ! ” said poor
Harry, trying to speak firmly. There are some hours yet.
Perhaps the letters may arrive, or the ships. Perhaps times
may mend ! ”

^^Stay, Harry!'* cried his uncle; stay ! We must not
trust to ships and letters ; we must not let Maria's heart be
broken. They must go/’ said the old man, looking round the
room and pointing to the Guercino and the Salvator : they
must be sold I ”

What I the pictures, sir? Oh no! no! the sacrifice is
too great. You must not part with the pictures.”

They must go,” replied the old man firmly ; and walking
slowly round the little room from one to the other, as if to
take leave of them, and wiping his handkerchief a speck of dust
which the bright sunshine had made visible on the sunny Both,
he left the apartment, locking the door behind him and carry-
ing away the key.

Louis Duval and Mr. Carlton have both said often and
often, that they would gladly give ten thousand pounds for
seven such pictures,” said Mark Bridgman, taking his hat :

they are both now in the neighbourhood, and I have no
doubt of their making the purchase. Don't object, Harry !
Don’t thank me ! Don't talk to me ! ” pursued the good old
man, checking his nephew’s attempt at interruption with a
little humour ; don’t speak to me on the subject, for I can’t
bear it. But come with me to the Nunnery.”

Silently the kinsmen walked thither, and in almost equal si-
lence (for there was a general respect for the old man’s feelings)
did they, accompanied by Louis and Mr. Carlton, return. The
party stopped at the Belford Bank, and there they parted ;
Harry armed with a check for ten thousand pounds to pay off
his merciless creditor.

Go to London, Harry,” said the old man, ‘‘ and say no

368

HARK BRIDGMAN.

more about the matter. I have made idols of these pictures,
and it is perhaps good for me that I should be deprived of
them. Go to Maria and the children, and be happy !

And, his warm heart aching with gratitude and regret,
Harry obeyed.

Mark on his side went back to Mill Lane, not quite unhappy,
because his conscience was satisfied ; but yet feeling at his
heart's core the full price of the sacrifice that he had made. He
dared not trust himself again with a sight of the pictures ; he
dared not tell Martha that he had sold them, for he knew that
her regrets would awaken his own. He had begged Mr.
Duval to convey them away early the next morning, and in the
very few words that had passed, (for in making the bargain he
had limited Louis to yes or no,) had desired him to send the
key, which he left with him, by the messenger ; and on going
to bed at night, he summoned courage to inform Martha that
the pictures were to be delivered to the bearer of the key of
the room where they were deposited, and charged her not to
come to him until they were fairly removed.

He spoke in a lower voice than usual, and yet it is remark-
abte that the poor old woman, usually so deaf, heard every word
with a painful and startling distinctness. She had thought
that something very grievous was the matter from the moment
of Harry's arrival, but such a grief as this she had never even
contemplated ; and forbidden by her master from giving vent
to her vexation before him, and unable to get at the beloved
objects of her sorrow, the dear pictures, she sat down on the
ground by the locked door and solaced herself by a hearty cry,
of which the tendency was so composing that she went to bed
and slept nearly as well as usual.

Very different was her master's case. Men have so many
advantages over women, that they need not grudge them the
unspedkable comfort of crying ; although in many instances,
and especially in this, it makes all the difference between a
good night and a bad one. Mark never closed his eyes. His
waking thoughts, however were not all unpleasant. He thought
of Maria and the children, and of Harry's generous reluctance
to deprive him of his treasures — and so long as he thought of
that he was happy. And then he thought of. Louis Duval, —
how well he deserved these pictures, and how much he would
i^ue them ; for Mark had been amongst Louis* earliest pa-
trons and kindest friends, and would undoubtedly have served

MARK. BRIDGMAN.

S69

Henry Warner, had he not been abroad during the few months
that he spent at Belford. ' And then too he thought of Hester,
and of her resemblance to the girl with the music-book. But
unluckily that recollection brought vividly before him the
Guercino itself, — and how he could live without that picture
he could not tell ! And then the night seemed endless.

At last morning dawned. But no sound was heard of cart
or waggon, or messenger from the Nunnery, though he had
implored Louis to send by daybreak. Five o'clock struck, and
six, and seven, — and no one had arrived. At last, a little
before eight, a single knock was heard at the dopr, but no cart,
— a single knock ; and after a moment’s parley, the knocker
went away, and the postman arrived, and, too impatient to
wait longer, the old gentleman rang the bell for his housekeeper.

Martha arrived, bringing two letters. One, a heavy packet,
had been left by a servant ; the other had arrived by the post.
As our friend Mark opened the first, a key dropped out. The
contents were as follows ;

“ The Nunnery, April 18th.

My dear Sir, ^

“ As 1 obeyed you implicitly yesterday, when you forbade
me to say any thing more than yes or no, you must allow me
to claim from you to-day an obedience equdly implicit. I re-
turn the key, with an earnest entreaty that you will conde-
scend to be the guardian of that and of the pictures. Long,
very long may you continue so ! Hester says that she never
should see those pictures with comfort anywhere but in their
own gallery, the dear back parlour ; and you know that Hester
always has her own way with everybody.

From the little that you would suffer Mr. H. Bridgman
to say yesterday, both Mr. Carlton and myself are inclined to
consider this money as a loan, to be returned at his conveni.
ence ; and our chief fear is lest he should hurry himself in the
repayment.

Should it, however, prove otherwise, just remember how
very, very kind you were to me, a poor and obscure boy, at a
time when your money, your encouragement, your good word,
and, above all, your permission to copy the Guercino, were
favours far greater than 1 ever can return. Recollect that 1
owe to the study of the girl with the music-book that notice
from Mr. Carlton which led to my acquaintance with Hester.

B B

370

JfABK BRlDOMAVr.

** After this, you must allow, that even if this sum were
never repaid, the balance of obligation must still be on my
side, — and that ! must always remain

“ Your grateful friend and servant,

Louis Duval.*^

With a trembling hand the old man opened the other letter.
He had had some trouble in deciphering Louis’s, perhaps
because he had been obliged to wipe his spectacles so often ;
and this epistle, although shorter and written in a bold mer-
cantile hand, proved more difficult still. Thus it ran :

London, April l?th.

dear Uncle,

^'On my return to town, I found that remittances had
arrived from Hamburgh and St. Petersburgh ; that the good
ship Amphion was safe in port, and that the Flycatcher had
been spoken with and was within two days* sail ; — in short,
that all was right in all quarters ; and that Maria, until I told
her the story, had not even suspected my embarrassments.
Imagine our intense thankfulness to you and to Heaven ! I
have returned the check to Mr. DuvaL The obligation I do
not even wish to cancel ; for to be grateful to such a person is
a most pleasurable feeling. I am quite sure, from the very
few words that you would suffier any one to speak yesterday,
that he considers the affair as a loan, and that the dear pic-
tures are still in the dear back parlour. 1 forgot to tell you
that the Amphion was to touch at Cadiz for two more paint-
ings, a Velasquez and a Murillo ; for which, if you cannot
find room, Mr. Buval must.

Once again, accept my most fervent thanks, and believe me

ever

** Your obliged and affectionate

Kinsman and friend,

H. Bridgman.’*

The gentle reader must imagine, for I cannot describe, the
feelings of the good old man on the perusal of these letters,
and the agitated delight with which, after he and Martha had
contrived to open the door, (for, somehow or other, their hands
shook so that ^ey could hardly turn the key in the lock,) they
both surveyed the rescued treasures. Also, he must settle to

A BTORT OP THE PLAOUEU

his fancy the long-disputed point (for it has been a contest of
no small duration^ and is hardly finished yet^) of the ultimate
destination of the Velasquez and the Murillo, — whether both
went to the Nunnery as Mark Bridgman proposed, or both to
Mill Lane as Louis Duval desired ; or whether Hester’s recon-
ciling clause were agreed to, and the merchant’s grateful
present divided between the parties. For my part, if I were
inclined to bet upon the occasion, I should lay a considerable
wager that the lady had her way. But, as I said before, the
courteous reader must settle the matter as seems to him best.

ROSAMOND :

A STORY OF THE PIiAOUE.

In the reign of Charles the Second — that reign ’over which
the dissolute levity of the monarch and his court, and the
witty pages of Count Anthony Hamilton, have shed a false and
delusive glare, which is sometimes mistaken for gaiety, but in
which the people, harassed* by perpetual treasons, or rumours
of treasons, and visited by such tremendous calamities as the
Fire and the Plague, seem to have been anything rather than
gay ; — in that troubled and distant reign, Belford was, as now,
a place of considerable size and importance ; probably, when
considered relatively with the size of other towns and the
general population of the kingdom, of as much consequence as
at the present time.

True it is, that, in common with other worshipful things,
the town had suftered losses.” The demolition of the abbey
had been a blow which a charter from Queen Elizabeth, and
even the high honour of bearing her royal effigy in the midst
of four other maiden faces for the borough arms, had hardly
repaired; whilst the munificent patronage of Archbishop
Laud, a liberal benefactor to the public schools and charitieB
of the place, scarcely made amends for the plunder of the cor* *
poration chest, — a measure resorted to on some frivdoua

B B 2

$7^ ROSAMOND :

pretext in the preceding reign, amongst many similar ways
and means of King Jamie. But the grand evil of all was,
that Belford happened to be so near the site of many of the
battles and sieges of the Civil War, that the inhabitants had
an undesired opportunity of judging with great nicety which
of the two contending parties did most harm in friendly
quarters, and whether the reprobate cavaliers of the royal army,
or the godly troopers of the parliamentary forces, were the
more oppressive and mischievous inmates of a peaceful town.
Even the wise rule of Cromwell, excellent as regarded the
restoration of prosperity within the realm, went but a little
way in compensating for the long years of turmoil and disaster
through which it had been obtained ; and although warned by
the fines and penalties levied on the corporation by James the
First of “ happy memory,’* and aware that his grandson had,
with somewhat diminished facilities for performing the oper-
ation, an equal taste for extracting money from the pockets of
the lieges, that prudent body contrived to turn so readily with
every wind during that stormy and changeable reign, that even
Archbishop Laud’s star chamber itself must have pronounced
fl^eir loyalty as unimpeachable as that of the docile and ductile
Vicar of Bray ; yet, such had been the effect of those different
drawbacks, of the royal mulcts and fines and penalties, and of
the exactions of the soldiery, in the Civil War, that the good
town of Belford was hardly so opiHent as its importance as a
county town and its situation on the great river might seem to
indicate, and by no means so gay as might have been expected
from its vicinity to London and Oxford, and the royal resi-
dences of Hampton and Windsor.

A dull, dreary, gloomy, ugly place as ever poor maiden
Was mewed up in !” it was pronounced by the fair Rosamond
Norton, the ward and kinswoman of old Anthony Shawe, apo-
thecary and herbalist, at the sign of the Golden Mortar, on
^e south end of the High Bridge, — the dullest, dreariest,
gloomiest, ugliest place that ever was built by hands ! She
witf sure,” she said, that there was not such a melancholy,
moping town in all England ; and the people in it^ — the few
folk ^at there were — looked sickly and pining, like the
great orange-tree in a little pot in Master Shawe's green-
*hb^, or fretful and discontented like her own lark >in his
Hired cage. Master Anthony was very kind to ber«— that she

A STORY OP THE PLAGUE.

needs must say ; but Belford and the Golden Mortar was a
weary dwelling-place for a young gentlewoman !”

And yet was Belford in those days a pretty place — prettier,
perhaps^ than now — with its old-fashioned picturesque streets,
mingled with trees and gardens radiating from the ample
market-place ; its beautiful churches ; the Forbury, with its
open lawn and mall-like walk ; the suburban clusters of rural
dwellings in the outskirts of the town ; and the bright dear
river running through its centre like a waving line of light : a
pretty place must Belford have been in those days ! And a
prettier dwelling than the Golden Mortar could hardly have
been found within the precincts of the town or of the
county.

The outward appearance of the house, as seen from the
street, was indeed sufficiently unpromising. It was an irre
gular, low-browed tenement, separated from the river by two
or three warehouses and granaries ; and the shop, a couple of
steps lo^er than the street, so that the descent into it had
somewhat the effect of walking down into a cellar, was,
although sufficiently spacious, dark and gloomy. The shelves,
too, — filled with bundles of dried camomile, saxifrage, p^lli-
tory, vervain, colemint, and a thousand other such herbs (vide
our friend Nicholas Culpeper), with boxes of costly spices,
rare gums, and mineral powders, and bottles filled with such
oils and distilled waters as formed the fashionable medicines of
the time, — had a certain dingy and ominous appearance^
much increased by divers stuffed curiosities from foreign parts,
amongst which an alligator suspended from the ceiling was the
most conspicuous, and sundry glass jars, containing pickled
reptiles and insects of various sorts, snakes, lizards, toads,
i^piders, and locusts ; whilst a dusky, smoky laboratory, into
which the shop opened, fitted up with stills, retorts, alembics,
furnaces, and all the chemical apparatus of the day, added to
the gloominess and discomfort of the general impression.

But, in one corner of that unpleasant -looking shop, fenced
from general observation by a brown stuff curtain, was a flight
of steps leading into apartments, not large indeed, but so
light, so airy, so pleasant, so comfortable, that the transition
from one side of the house to the other was like passing from
night into day. These were the apartments of Rosatnondi
They opened too into a large garden, embracing the whole

B B 3

ROSAMOND :

S74

space behind the granaries and warehouses that led to the
river>^de^ and extending hack until stopped hy wharfs for
coals and timber, too valuable to he purchased: — for his
garden was Anthony Shawe’s delight ; who, a botanist and a
traveller, a friend of Evelyn’s and a zealous cultivator of
foreign plants, had filled the whole plot of ground with rare
herbs and choice flowers, and had even attained to the luxury
of a cold, damp, dark house for greens, where certain orange
and lemon trees, myrtles, laurustinuses, and phillyreas, lan-
guished through the winter, and were held for miracles of
bounty and profusion if in some unusually fine summer they
had strength enough to bear blossoms and fruit. Ah me !
what would Master Anthony Shawe and his worthy friend
Master Evelyn say if they could but look upon the pits, the
stove-houses, the conservatories, the gardening-doings of these
horticultural days ! I question if steam-boats and railroads
would astonish them half so much.

Nevertheless, that garden, in spite of its cold greenhouse,
was in its less pretending parts a plac6 of exceeding pleasant-
ness,— rich to profusion in the most beautiful of the English
plants and shrubs, pinks, lilies, roses, jessamine, and fragrant
in the aromatic herbs of all countries which, together with the
roots and leaves of .flowers, formed so large a part of the
materia medica of the time. So exceedingly pleasant was
that garden, kept by constant watering in a state of delicious
and dewy freshness that might vie with an April meadow,
that 1 could almost sympathise with Anthony Shawe, and
wonder what Rosamond could wish for more.

Her little sitting-room was nearly as delightful as the
flowery territory into which it led by a broad flight of steps
from a small terrace with a stone balustrade, that ran along
the back of the house. Master Anthony’s ruling taste predo-
minated even in the fitting up of this maiden’s bower : the
Flemish hangings were gorgeous, with hollyhocks, tulips, pop-
pies, peonies, and other showy blossoms ; a beautifully-finished
flower-piece, by the old artist Colantonio del Fiore, which
Anthony had himself brought from Naples, hung on one side
of the room ; a silver vessel for perfumes, adorned with an ex-
quisitely-wrought device of vine-leaves with their tendrils, and
ivies with their buds, in the matchless chasing of Benvenuto
(Bellini, stood on a marble slab beneath the mirror ; and around

A STOUY OF THE PLAQUE. $J5

that Venetian mirror was a recent acquisition, a work of art
more precious and more beautiful than all — a garland of roses
and honeysuckles, of anemones and water-lilies, of the loose
pendent laburnum and the close clustering hyacinth, in the
unrivalled carving of Gibbon ; a garland, whose light and
wreathy grace, whose depth and richness of execution, and in-
'comparable truth of delineation, both in the foliage and the
blossoms, seemed to want nothing but colour to vie with Nature
herself. Persian carpets, gay with the gorgeous vegetation of
the East, covered the floor, and the low stool on which she was
accustomed to sit; the high-backed ebony chair, sacred to
Master Anthony, boasted its bunch of embroidered carnations
on the cushion ; the vases that crowned the balustrade were
filled with aloes and other foreign plants ; jessamines and
musk-roses were trained around the casements. All was gay
and smiling, bright to the eye and sweet to the scent ; yet
still the ungrateful Rosamond pronounced Belford to be the
dullest, dreariest, gloomiest town that ever was built by hands,
and the Golden Mortar the saddest and dreariest abode wherein
ever young maiden was condemned to sojourn : and if any one
of the few neighbours and companions who were admitted to
converse with the young beauty ventured, by way of consola*
tion, to advert to the ornaments of her chamber — ornaments
so unusual in that rank and age, that their possession excited
something of envy mingled with wonder, — the perverse dam-
sel would point to her imprisoned lark, chafing its feathers
and beating its speckled breast against the bars of its cage,
and ask whether the poor bird were happier for the bars being
gilded ?

Rosamond Norton was very distantly related to her kind
guardian. She was the daughter of one whom, thirty years
before (the date of which we are now speaking is 1662), he
had loved with a fondness, an ardour, an intensity, a con-
stancy, that deserved a better return : — the object of his pas-
sion, a light and laughing beauty, had preferred a gay and
gallant cavalier to her grave and studious and somewhat puri-
tanical cousin : had married Reginald Norton, then an officer in
the king’s service ; had followed the fortunes of the royal
family ; and had led a roving and desultory life, sometimes in
great indigence, sometimes in brief gaiety, as remittances from
her family in England arrived or failed, until, on the death of

B B 4

ROSAMOND :

376

hof husband, she returned to take possession, by the clemency
of the Lord Protector of her paternal estate near Belford,
bringing with her our friend Rosamond, her only surviving
daughter; whom, on her death about a twelvemonth after
the Restoration, she bequeathed to the care and guardianship
of her true friend and loving kinsman Anthony Shawe.

Anthony, on his part, had felt the influence of his early
disappointment throughout his apparently calm and prosperous
destiny. For some few years after Mrs. Norton's marriage,
he had travelled to Italy and the Levant — countries interest-
ing in every respect to a scientific and inquiring mind, and
especially gratifying to his researches in medicine and botany ;
and on his return he had established himself in his native
town of Belford, pursuing, partly for profit, and partly from
an honest desire to be of some service in his generation, the
mingled vocation of herbalist, apothecary, and physician.
Rich or poor might always command his readiest service —
the poor perhaps rather more certainly than the rich ; and his
skill, his kindness, and his almost unlimited charity rendered
him universally respected and beloved.

Master Anthony had, however, his peculiarities. In re-
ligion he was a .puritan ; in politics, a roundhead ; and although
his peacefid pursuits and quiet demeanour, ks well as the
general good-will of his neighbours, had protected him front
any molestation in the change of government that followed
quickly on the death of Cromwell, yet his own strong preju-
dices, which the licence of Charles's conduct contributed
hourly to augment, the rigid austerity of his notions, and the
solemn gravity of his deportment, rendered him, however
kind and indulgent, no very acceptable guardian to a young
and lovely woman, brought up in the contrary extremes of a
romantic loyalty, a bigoted attachment to the forms and tenets
o£ the high church, an unrestrained habit of personal liberty,
and the love of variety and of innocent amusement natural to
a lively and high-spirited girl.

Grateful, a^ctionate, and amiable in her disposition, with
a warm heart and a pliant temper, it is however more than
probable that Rosamond Norton would soon have lost, in the
afifectionate cares of her guardian, her pettish resentment at
the unwonted restraints and wearisome monotony of her too
tranquil abode, and would have taken root in lier new habita<»

A STORV OV THE PLAGUE. 377

ti6n in little more time than it takes to settle a transplanted
flower, had not a far deeper and more powerful motive of dis-i
union existed between them.

Whilst wandering with her parents from city to city abroad;
she had become acquainted with a lad a few years older than
herself — a relation of Rochester’s, in the service of the king,
— and an attachment warm, fervent, and indissoluble had
ensued between the young exiles. When again for a short
time in London with her mother, after the Restoration, the
faithful lovers had met, and had renewed their engagement
Mrs. Norton, although not opposing the union, had desired
some delay, and had died suddenly during the interval, leaving
poor Rosamond in the guardianship of one who, of all men
alive, was most certain to oppose the marriage. A courtier !
a placeman ! a kinsman of Rochester ! — a favourite of
Charles ! Master Anthony would have thought present death
a more hopeful destiny 1 That the young man was, in a
position replete with danger and temptation, of unimpeachable
morality and unexceptionable conduct, — that he was as pru-
dent as he was liberal, as good as he was gay, — mattered
little, he would not have believed her assertions, although an
angel had come from heaven to attest their truth. The flrst
act of his authoHty as guardian was to forbid her holding any
communication with her lover ; and poor Rosamond’s bitter
declamation on the dulness and ugliness of Belford and the
Golden Mortar might all be construed into one simple meaning,
— that Belford was a place where Richard Tyson was not.

We have it however upon high authority, that through
whatever obstacles may oppose themselves, Love will find out
the way ; and it is not wonderful that, a few evenings after
the commencement of our story, Richard Tyson, young and
active, should have rowed his little boat up the river — have
moored it in a small creek belonging to the wharf of which we
have made mention, at the end of Master Anthony's garden —
have climbed by the aid of a pile of timber to the top of the
have leaped down on a sloping bank of turf, which
rendered the descent safe and easy — and finally have hidden
himself in a thicket of roses and honeysuckles, then in full
bloom, to await the arrival of the lady of his heart. It was t
lovely evening in the latter end of May, glowing, dewy, and
fragrant as ever the nightingale selected for the wooing of th^

378

ROflAMONl> :

rose ; and before the light had paled in the west^ or the even,
ingistar glittered in the water, Richard’s heart beat high
within him at the sound of a light footstep and the rustling of
a ailken robe. She was alone — he was sure of that — and
he began to sing in a subdued tone a few words of a cavalier
song which had been the signal of their meetings long ago,
when, little more than boy and girl, the adection to which
they hardly dared to give a name had grown up between them
in a foreign land. He sang a few words of that air which had
been his summons at Brussels and the Hague, and in a moment
the fair Rosamond, in the flowing dress which Lely has so
often painted, and in all the glow of her animated beauty,
stood panting and breathless before him.

What need to detail the interview? He pressed for an
instant elopement — a|| immediate union, authorized by
Rochester, connived at by the King ; and she (such is the
inconsistency of the human heart !) clung to the guardian
whose rule she had thought so arbitrary — the home she had
called so dreary : she could not and would not leave Master
Anthony all his kindness, his patient endurance of her pet-
tishness, his fond anticipations of her wishes, his affectionate
admonitions, his tender cares, rose before her as she thought
of forsaking him ; the good old man himself, with his thin and
care-bent figure, his sad-coloured suit so accurately neat, and
his mild, benevolent countenance, his venerable white head —
all rose before her as she listened to the solicitations of her
lover. She could not leave Master Anthony ! — she would
wait till she was of age !’*

^‘When you know, Rosamond, that your too careful mother
fixed five-and-twenty as the period at which you were to attain
your majority ! How can I live during these tedious years of
suspense and separation ? Have we not already been too long
parted ? Come with me, sweetest ! Come, I beseech you ! ”

" Wait, then, till the good old man consents } ”

And that will be never ! Trifle no longer, dearest I
1 cannot leave Master Anthony I 1 cannot abandon him
in his old age ! ”

And yet how Richard managed love only knows ; but
before the twilight darkened into night, the fair Rosamond
was seated at his side, rowing quickly down the stream in
his little boat to the lonely fisherman’s hut, about a mile from

A STORY OF THE PLAOUE. 379

Belford, where swift horses and a trusty servant waited their
arrival ; and before noon the next day the young couple were
married.

The power of the court, in nothing more unscrupulously
exercised than in the adairs of wardships, speedily compelled
Master Anthony to place Rosamond s fortune unreservedly in
the hands of her husband ; and the excellent conduct of the
young man on an occasion not a little trying, the gratitude
with which he acknowledged the good management of her
offended guardian, and begged him to dictate his own terms
as to the settlement that should be made upon her, and to
name himself the proper trustees ; his deep personal respect,
and earnest entreaties for the pardon and the reconciliation
without which his wife’s happiness would be incomplete, were
such as might have mollified a harder jpart than that of Mas-
ter Shawe. That he continued obdurate, arose chiefly from
the excess of his past fondness. In the course of his long
life he had fondly loved two persons, and two only, Rosamond
and her mother. The marriage of the first had fallen like a
blight upon his manhood, had withered bis affections, and
palsied his energies in middle age ; and now that the second
object of his tenderness, the charming creature whom, for her
own sake, and for the remembrance of his early passion^ he
had loved as his own daughter, now that she had forsaken
him he was conscious of a bitterness of feeling, a vexed and
angry grief, that seemed to turn his blood into gall. His
mind settled down into a stern and moody resentment, to
which forgiveness seemed impossible.

Rosamond grieved, as an affectionate and grateful heart
does grieve, over the anger of her venerable guardian ; and
she grieved the more because her conscience told her that his
displeasure, however excessive, was not undeserved. She that
had been so repining and unthankful whilst the object of his
cares and the inmate of his mansion, now thought of the good
old man with an aching gratitude, a yearning tenderness, all
the deeper that these feelings were wholly unavailing. It was
like the fond relenting, the too-late repentance with which
we so often hang over the tomb of the dead, remembering all
their past affection, and feeling how little we deserved, how
inadequately we acknowledged it. Stern as he was, if piaster
Anthony could have seen into Rosamond's bosom, as she

sm

ROSAMONB ;

walked oti a summer evening beneath the great lime«>trees that
overhung the murmuring Loddon, as it glided by her own
garden at Burnham Manor, reminding her of the bright and
dlvery Kennet, and of the perfum^ flower-garden by the
High Bridge ; could he at such a moment have read her in^
most thoughts, have penetrated into her most hidden feelings,
angry as he was. Master Shawe would have forgiven her.

This source of regret was, however, the solitary cloud, the
single shadow that passed over her happiness. Richard Tyson
proved exactly the husband that she had anticipated from his
conduct and character as a lover. Adversity had done for him
what it had failed to do for his master, and had prepared him
to enjoy his present blessings with thankfulness and modera-
tion. Attached to the court by ties which it was impossible
to break, he yet resist^ the temptation of carrying his young
and beautiful wife into an atmosphere of so much danger. She
lived at her own paternal seat of Burnham Manor, and he
spent all the time that he could spare from his official station
in that pleasant retirement, the easy distance of Burnham
(which lay about six or seven miles east of Belford) from
London, Windsor, and Hampton Court rendering the union
of his public duties and his domestic pleasures comparatively
easy.

So three years glided happily away, untroubled except by
an occasional thought of her poor old guardian, whose good
white head,*' and pale, thoughtful countenance would often
rise unbidden to her memory. Three years had elapsed, and
Rosamond was now the careful mother of two children ; the
one a delicate girl, about fourteen months old ; the other a
bold, sturdy boy, a twelvemonth older, to whom, with her
husband’s permission, she had given the name of Anthony.
That kind husband was abroad on a mission of considerable
delicacy, though of little ostensible importance, at one of the
Italian courts ; and his loving wife rejoiced in his absence,
rejoiced even in the probability of its duration ; for this was
the summer of 1665, and the fearful pestilence, the great
PL^e of London, was hovering like a demon over the de-
voted nation.

Thia is not the place in which to attempt a description of
fhose horrors, familiar to every reader through the minute
and accurate narratives of Pepys and Evelyn, and the graphic

A STOn? OF THE PLAGUE.

381

pictures of De Foe. In the depths of her tranquil seclusion,
the young matron heard the distant rumours of that tremen-
dous visitation of the devoted city ; and clasping her children
to her breast, blessed Heaven that they were safe in their
country home, and that their dear father was far away. Had
he been in England — in London, attending, as was the duty
of his office, about the person of the king, how could the poor
Rosamond have endured such a trial !

A day of grievous trial did arrive, altliough of a different
nature. The panic-struck fugitives who fled from the city
in hopes of shunning the disease, brought the infection with
them into the country ; and it was soon known in the little village
of Burnham that the plague raged in Belford. The markets,
they said, were deserted ; the shops were closed ; visitors and
watchmen were appointed ; the fatal gross was affixed against
the infected houses ; and the only sounds heard in those once
busy streets were the tolling of the bell by day, and the rumb-
ling of the dead-cart by night. London itself was not more
grievously visited.

And Master Anthony ? ** inquired Rosamond, as she lis-
tened with breathless horror to this fearful intelligence ; '^Mas-
ter Anthony Shawe ?

The answer was such as she anticipated. In that deserted
town Master Anthony was everywhere, succouring the sick,
comforting the afflicted, relieving the poor. He alone walked
the streets of that stricken city as fearlessly as if he bore a
charmed life.

Comforting and relieving others, and himself deserted and
alone ! ’’ exclaimed Rosamond, bursting into a flood of tears.

God bless him ! God preserve him ! If he should die with-
out forgiving me ! ” added she, wringing her hands with all
the bitterness of a grief quickened by remorse — ^‘If he should
die without forgiving me ! ” And Rosamond wept as if her
very heart would break.

Better hopes, however, soon arose. She knew that Master
Anthony, singularly skilful in. almost all disoiders, had, when
in the Levant, made a particular study of the fearful pestilence
that was now raging about him ; he had even instructed her in
the symptoms, the preventives, and the treatment of a ma-
lady from which, in those days, London was seldom entir^y
free ; and, above all, she knew him to have a confljrroed belief
that they who fearlessly ministered to the sick, who did their

382

ROSAMOND :

duty with proper caution^ but without dread, seldom fell vic-
tims to the disorder. Rosamond remembered how often she
had heaid him say that a godly courage was the best preser-
vative!'* She remembered the words, and the assured yet
reverent look with which he spake them, and she wiped away
her tears and was comforted.

In the peaceful retirement of Burnham, one of the small
secluded villages which lie along the course of the Loddon,
remote from great roads, a pastoral valley, hidden as it were
among its own rich woodlands ; in this calm seclusion she and
her children and her household were as safe as if the pestilence
had never visited England. All her anxieties turned, there-
fore, towards Belford i and Reuben Spence, an old and faithful
servant who had lived with her mother before her marriage,
and had known Master Anthony all his life, contrived to pro-
cure her daily tidings of his welfare.

For some time these reports were sufficiently satisfactory ;
he was still seen about the streets on his errands of mercy.
But one evening Reuben, on his return from his usual in-
quiries, hesitated to appear before his lady, and, when he did
attend her repeated summons, wore a face of such dismay that,
struck with a sure presage of evil, Rosamond exclaimed with
desperate calmness, He is dead 1 1 can bear it. Tell me

at once. He is dead ? "

Reuben hastened to assure her that she was mistaken ; that
Master Anthony was not dead. But in answer to her eager
inquiries he was compelled to answer, that he was said to be
smitten with the disorder ; that the fatal sign was on the door;
and that there were rumours, for the truth of which he could
not take upon himself to vouch, of plunder and abandonment ;
that a trusted servant was said to have robbed the old man,
and then deserted him ; and that he who had been during this
visitation the ministering angel of the town, was now left to
die neglected and alone.

Alone 1 but did 1 not leave him f Abandoned ! did not
I abandon him? Gracious God! direct me; and protect
those poor innocents ! ’* cried Rosamond, glancing on her chil-
dren ; and then ordering her palfrey to be made ready, she
tore herself from the sleeping infants, wrote a brief letter to
her husband, and silencing, by an unusual exertion of autho-
rity, the affectionate remonstrances of her househbld, who all
messed but too truly the place of her djsstination, set forth on

' A STORY OF TB£ PLAGUE*

38$

the road to Belford, accompanied by old Reuben^ ivho in vain
assured her that she was risking her life to no purpose^ fot
that the watchman would let no one enter an infected house.

Alas ! replied Rosamond, did 1 not leave that house ?
I shall find no difiiculty in entering.*'

Accordingly she directed her course through the by-lanes
leading to the old ruins, and then, stopping short at the Abbey
Bridge, dismissed her faithful attendant, who cried like a child
on parting from his fair mistress, and following the course of
the river, reached the well-known timber wharf, and scaling
with some little difficulty the wall over which her own Richard
had assisted her so fondly upwards of three years before, found
herself once again in Master Anthony’s pleasant garden*

«What a desolation ! what a change ! It was new the mid-
dle of September, and for many weeks the overgrown herbs
and flowers had been left ungathered, unwatered, untended,
uncared for ; so that all looked wild and withered, neglected
and decayed. The foot of man, too, had been there, tramp-
ling and treading down. The genius of Destruction seemed
hovering over the place. All around the house, the garden,
the river, the town, was silent as death. The only sign of
human habitation was one glimmering light in the upper win-
dow of a humble dwelling across the water, where some poor
wretch lay, perhaps at that very moment in his last agonies.
Except that one small taper, all was dark and still ; not a leaf
stirred in the night wind ; the very air was hushed and heavy,
and Nature herself seemed at pause.

Rosamond lingered a moment in the garden, awestruck with
the desolation of the scene. She then applied herself to the
task of gathering such aromatic herbs as were reckoned power-
ful against infection ; for the happy wife, the tender mother,
knew well the value of the life that she risked. Poor old
Reuben, her faithful servant, proved that he also was con-
scious how precious was that life. Suspecting their destina-
tion, he had packed in a little basket such perfumes and cor-
dials, and fragrant gums, as he thought roost likely to preserve
his fair mistress from the dreaded malady ; and when reluct-
antly obeying her commands, and parting from her at the
Abbey Bridge, he had put the basket into her almost uncon-
scious hand, together with a light which he had procured at m
cottage by die wayside*

#34 B0S4M0ND :

Touched by the old man’s affectionate care^ which while
gathering the herbs she had first discovered, llosamond pro-
ceeded up the steps to her own old chamber. The door was
igar, and the state of the little apartment, its opened drawers
and plundered ornaments, told too plainly that the vague ac-
count which by some indirect and untraceable channel had
reached Reuben was actually true. That the trusted house-
keeper had robbed her indulgent master, incited, it may be, by
the cupidity of that trying hour, when every bad impulse
sprang into action « amidst the universal demoralisation; that
the drudges of the household had either joined her in the rob-
bery, or had fled from the danger of contagion under the in-
fluence of a base and selflsh fear; and that her venerable guar-
dian was abandoned, as so many others had been, to the mercy
of some brutal watchman, whose only care was to examine
once or twice a day whether the wretch whose door he guarded
were still alive, and to report his death to the proper autho-
rities.

All this passed through Rosamond’s mind' with a loathing
abhorrence of the vile ingratitude which had left him who
had in the early stage of the pestilence been the guardian
angel of the place, to perish alone and unsuccoured. But
did not 1 desert him i” exclaimed she aloud in the bitterness
of her heart. Did not I abandon him I — I, whom* he
loved so well!” And immediately, attracted perhaps by the
souird, which proved that some person was near him, a feeble
voice called faintly for water.”

With nerv6us haste. Rosamond filled a jug and hurried to
the small chamber — Master Anthony’s own chamber — from
wbeuce*the vofce proceeded. The old man lay on the floor,
dressed as if just returned from walking, his white head bare
and his face nearly hidden by one arm. He still called faintly
for water, and drank eagerly of the liquid as she raised that
tanerable head and held the jug to his lips ; then, exhausted
with the effort, he sank back on the pillow that she placed for
him-; and his anxious attendant proceeded to examine his
oomsIiBnance, and to seek on his breast and wrist for the terrible
.jdague-spot, the fatal sign of the disorder.

. No such sign was there. Again and again did Rosamond
gase, wiping away her tears, — look searchingly on that pale
benevolent face, aqd inspect the bosom and the arn^. Again

A STORY OP THE PLAGUE.

385

and again did she feel the feeble pulse and listen to the faint
breathing;— again and again did she wipe away her tears of
joy. It was exhaustion^ inanition^ fatigue^ weakness^ age ; it
was even sickness, heavy sickness — but not the sickness — not
the plague.

Oh, how Rosamond wept and prayed, and blessed God for
his mercies during that night’s watching! Her venerable
patient slept calmly — slept as if he knew that one whom he
loved was bending over him ; and even in sleep his amend-
ment was perceptible, — his pulse was stronger, his breathing
more free, and a gentle dew arose on his pale forehead.

As morning dawned — that dawning which in a sick room
is often so very sad, but which to Rosamond seemed full of
hope and life, — as morning dawned, the good old man awoke
and called again for drink. Turning aside her face, she
offered him a reviving cordial. He took it • and as he gave
back the cup to her trembling hand, he knew that fair and
dimpled hand, and the grace of that light figure: although
her face was concealed, he knew her: — Rosamond! It w
my Rosamond!”

Oh ! Master Anthony I — dear Master Anthony ! Bless-
ings on you for that kind wor^ ! It is your own Rosamond!
Forgive her ! — pray forgive her I — forgive your own poor
child!”

And the blessed tears of reconciliation fell fast from the
eyes of both. ■ Never had Master Anthony known so soft, so
gentle, so tender a mixture of affection and gratitude. Never
had Rosamond, in all the joys of virtuous love, tasted of a
felicity so exquisite and so pure.

In the course of that morning, the good old Reuben, fol-
lowing, in spite of her prohibition, the track of his beloved
mistress, made his way into Master Shawe’s dwelling, accom-
panied by a poor widow whose son had been cured by his skill,
and who came to offer her services as his attendant : and in
less than a fortnight the whole party, well and happy, were
assembled in the great hall of Burnham Manor; Master
Anthony with his young namesake on his knee, and l^iibard
Tyson, returned from his embassy, dandling and tossing the
lovely little girl, whom they all, especially her veneralde
guardian, pronounced to be ^e very image of his own fair
Rosamond*

386

OLD DAVID DYKES.

OLD DAVID DYKES.

One of my earliest recollections in Belford was of an aged
and miserable-looking little man, yellow, withered, meagre and
bent, who was known by every boy in the place as old David
Dykes, and had been popularly distinguished by that epithet
for twenty years or more. There was not so wretched an
object in the town ; and his abode (for, destitute pauper as he
seemed, he actually had a habitation to himself) was still more
forlorn and deplorable than his personal appearance.

The hovel in which he lived was the smallest, dirtiest,
dingiest, and most ruinous, of a row of dirty, dingy, ruinous
houses, 'gradually diminishing in height and size, and running
down the centre of the Butts, which at one end was divided
into two narrow streets by this unsightly and unseemly wedge ’
of tumble-down masonry. Old David's hut consisted of
nothing more than one dark, gloomy little room, which served
him for a shop ; a closet still smaller, behind ; and a cock-loft,
to which he ascended by a ladder, and in no part of which
could he stand upright, in the roof.

The shop was divided into two compartments; one side
being devoted to a paltry collection of second-hand clocks and
watches, he being by trade a watchmaker, — and the other to
a still more beggarly assortment of old clothes, in the purchase
and disposal of which he was particularly skilful, beating,
although of Christian parentage, all the Jews of the place in
their own peculiar art of buying cheap and selling dear.
The manner in which he would cry down some half-worn
gown or faded waistcoat, offering perhaps about a twentieth of
its value, and affecting the most scornful indifference as to the
bargain ; the lynx-eye with which, looking up through his
iron-rimmed spectacles from the clock-spring that he was
engaged in cleaning, he would watch the conflict between
necessity and indignation in the mind of the unfortunate
vender ; and then again the way in which, half-an-hour after-
wards, be would cajole the dupe with a shilling into buying at
five hundred per cent, profit what he had just purchased of

OLD DAVID DTRES» 387

the dupe without one, — might have read a lesson in the
science of bargain-making to all Monmouth Street.

At such a moment there was a self-satisfied chuckle in the
old wrinkled cheeks, a twinkle in the keen grey eyes which,
peered up through the old spectacles and the shaggy grey eye-
brows, and a clutch of delight in the manner in which the long,
lean, trembling fingers closed over the money, which went
very far to counteract the impression produced by his* wretched
appearance. At the moment of a successful deal, when he had
gained a little dirty pelf by cheating to right and left, first the
miserable seller, then the simple purchaser — at such a moment
nobody could mistake David Dykes for an object of charity.
His very garments (the refuse of his shop, which even his in-
genuity could not coax any one else into purchasing) assumed
an air of ragged triumph ; and his old wig, the only article of
luxury — that is to say, the only superfiuous piece of clothing
about him, — that venerable scratch on which there was hardly
hair enough left to tell the colour, actually bristled up with
delight. Poor for a certainty David was ; but it was poverty
of mind, and not of circumstances. The man was a miser.

This fact was of course perfectly well known to all his
neighbours ; and to this recognized and undeniable truth was
added a strong suspicion that, in spite of his sordid traffic and
apparently petty gains, David Dykes was not only a miser,
but a rich miser.

He had been the son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood
of Belford, and apprenticed to a watchmaker in the town ; and
when, on the death of his parents, his elder brother had suc-
ceeded to the lease and stock, he, just out of his time, had
employed the small portion of money which fell to his lot in
purchasing and furnishing the identical shop in Middle-row,
in which he had continued ever since, and being a clever
workman, and abundantly humble and punctual, speedily ob-
tained a very fair share of employment, as the general cleaner
and repairer of clocks and watches for half-a-dozen miles
round. To this he soon added his successful traffic in second-
hand clothes and other articles ; and when it is considered that
for nearly sixty years he had never been known to miss earn-
ing a penny, or to incur the most trifling unnecessary expense,
it may be conceded that they who supposed him well to do in
the world were probably not much out in their calculations.
c 0 2

388

OtD DAVI1> DTKBB.

His only companion was a fierce and faithful mastiff dog^
one of dear Margaret Lane’s army of pensioners. David had
begged Tiger of her husband when a puppy ; and Stephen^
then a young man^ and always good-natured and unwilling to
refuse a neighbour, bestowed the high-blooded animal upon him
with such stipulations as to care and food, as evinced his per-
fect knowledge of the watchmaker’s character. Mind,” said
Stephen, that youjfeed that pup well. Don’t think to starve
him as you do yourself, for he’s been used to good keep, and»
so have his father and mother before him; and if you’ve got a
notion in your head of his h^ing able to live as you live, upon
a potato a day, why I give you fair warning that he won’t
stand it. Feed him properly, and he*ll be a faithful friend,
and take care of your shop and your money : but no starvation ! ”
And David promised,* intending perhaps to keep his word.
But his notions of good feed were so different from Tiger s
that Stephen’s misgivings were completely realised. The poor
puppy, haggard and empty, found his way to his old master’s
yard, and catching sight of Mrs. Lane, crept towards her and
crouched down at her feet, looking so piteously in her face, and
licking the hand with which she patted his rough honest head
so imploringly, that Margaret, who never could bear to see any
sort of creature in any distress that she could relieve, im-
mediately fetched him a dinner, and stood by whilst he ate it;
and, somehow or other, a tacit compact ensued between her
and Tiger, that he should live with David Dykes — who,
except in the matter of starving, was a kind master, — and
come every day to her to be fed. And so it was settled, to
the general satisfaction of all parties.

Tiger therefore continued the watchmaker’s companion —
his only companion ; for although he once, in a fit of most un-
usual self-indulgence, contemplated taking an old woman as his
housekeeper, to attend the shop when he went clock-cleaning
into the country ; light his fire during the very small portion of
the year that he allowed himself such a luxury ; make his
bed — such as it was ; cook his dinner — when he had one ;
and perform for him those offices wherein he had been
accustomed to minister to himself — and although he ac-
tually went so far as to hire a poor woman of approved honesty
in that capacity upon very satisfactory terms, — that is to say,
for her board and a certain portion of old clothes, and no
wages, yet her notions upon the subject of diet faring a

OLD DAVID DYKES.

389

greater resemblance to Tiger's than her master’s and she having
unluckily no Margaret Lane to resort to, she took herself oflP at
the end of eight-and-forty hours, and sought refuge in the
work-house of St. Nicholas, the strictest in the town, as an ac-
tual land of plenty in comparison with the watchmaker’s
dwelling.

David, who, starved as she called herself, had thought her
the greatest glutton in existence, and begrudged her every
morsel that she put into her mouth — was glad enough of the
* riddance. Old as he was, his habits were too lonely and un«-
social, too peculiar and too independent of the services of
others, to find any comfort in attendance and company. To
save half an inch of candle by going to bed in the dark, and a
quarter of a pound of soap by washing his own linen without
that usual companion of the wash-tub ; to borrow a needle and
beg a bit of thread, and mend with liis own hands his own
stockings or his own shirt ; to sew on the knees of his inex-
pressibles, a button totally unlike the rest, — a metal button,
for instance, when the others were bone, — or a bit of olive-
coloured tape, when the companion-piece had once been drab ;
to patch his old brown coat with a bit of old black cloth ; to
clout his old shoes with a piece of leather picked up in the
streets ; — to save money, in short, by any of those contri-
vances and devices which the world calls most sordid, had to
him an inexpressible savour. There was a chuckle of ineffk-
ble satisfaction when he had by such means avoided the expen-
diture of twopence ; which proves that avarice has its pleasures,
high in degree, although low in kind. His delight in making
a good bargain was of the same nature, and perhaps more
exquisite, since the pride of successful cunning was added to
the gratification of accumulation. A rise in the Three per
Cents, was a less positive delight, since it was dashed with a
considerable portion of anxiety ; for if Consols rose one day,
they might fall the next. But the joy of all joys, the triumph
of all triumphs, was on his half-yearly journeys to London,
accomplished partly on foot, partly by a cast in a cart or wag-
gon bestowed on him for charity, and partly by a sixpenny ride
on the outside of a coach. Then, when first receiving and
then buying in his dividends, and looking on his bank-receipts
(those little bits of paper which replace so shabbily the tangi-
ble riches — the gold and precious stones which gave sudb
c 0 3

lUiD DAVID DYKM.

500

gorgeouBneoB to ihe d^gbts*of avarice> as represented in the
dd pbetS})-— then he felt^ in its fhllest extent, the highest
ecstaey of which a miser is capable.

Frm the amount of these accumulations, successful specu-
latidns in loans or the money-market must have aided his
scrapings and savings. Meeting him at the Bank^ Stephen
Lane became accidentally acquainted with the amount, and
remonstrated with his usual good-humoured frankness on his
not allowing himself the comforts he could so well afford.

Wait,” replied David, " till it mounts to another plum, and
then i ’* — Wait ! and he was already turned of eighty !

Far whom this fortune was destined, the owner himself
would have found it difficult to say. His brother had long
been dead, and his brother's son. The only survivor of the
family was his grandnephew and namesake, a young David
Dykes, who left the paternal farm and set up a showy haber-
dasher’s shop in Belford. A showy young man he was him-
self ; bold, speculating, adventurous, plausible ; with a surface
of good humour and a substratum of selfishness.

He'll turn out a spendthrift,” observed one day David the
elder to our friend Stephen Lane.

Or a miser,” replied the butcher, doubtingly.

‘‘ We shall see,” rejoined David, whether hell take up
the 20/. bill 1 cashed for him, — the first bill I ever cashed
for anybody.”

And as the grandnephew did not take up the bill, the grand-
uncle, provoked at having been, for the first time in his life,
overreached, instantly arrested him ; and other creditors pour-
ing in, he was confined in Belford gaol, with no other chance
of release than the Insolvent Act and the clinging conscious-
ness of having irreparably offended his old relation.

Our miser, on his part, thought of nothing so much as of
replacing the twenty pounds ; redoubling for this purpose bis
industry, his abstemiousness, and his savings of every sort.
It was a hard winter ; but he allowed himself neither fire nor
candle, nor meat, nor beer, living as Tiger and the house-
keeper had refused to live, on water and potatoes. Accord-
ingly, on one frosty morning, the watchmaker was missed in
his accustomed haunts — the shop was unopened — Tiger was
heard howling within the house, and on breaking open the
door the poor old man was found dead in his miserable bed.

No will could be discovered ; and the kinsman whom he

OLD DAVID DYKES*

m

had caused to be arrested^ the only person whom (thoroughly
harmless and kindly in his general feeling) he had perhaps
ever disliked in his life^ came in as heir-at-law for his immense
fortune and all his possessions, — except our friend Tiger, who
wisely betook himself to his old refuge, the butcher’s yard, and
his old protectress, Margaret Lane.

David Dykes the younger realised his granduncle’s predic-
tions by getting through his fortune with incredible despatch ;
assisted in that meritorious purpose by every pursuit that ever
has been devised for speeding a traveller on the Road to Ruin;
and aided by the very worst company in town and country.
Horses, hounds, carriages, the gaming-table, and the turf, had
each a share in his undoing ; and the consummation was at
last reserved for a contested election, which he lost on the same
day that his principal gambling companion ran away with a
French opera-dancer, who had condescended to reside in his
house, to wear his jewels, and to spend his money.

Timon of Athens had never more cause to turn misan.
thrope ; but misanthropy was too noble a disease to run in the
Dykes’ blood — their turn was different.

No sooner was our prodigal completely ruined, than he
vindicated Stephen Lane’s knowledge of character ; for, hav-
ing spent and sold everything except the hovel in which the
money was accumulated, and which in his prosperity had been
overlooked as too mean an object for the hammer of the
auctioneer, he ’’came back to Belford, like the Heir of Lynne
to his ruined Grange, established himself in that identical old-
clothes-shop, and found there, not indeed a hoard of gold, not
a second ready-made fortune, but the power of amassing one
by thrift and industry.

There he may be seen any day, buying, selling and barter-
ing, in much such a patched suit as his uncle's, wigged and spec-
tacled like him, — 1 won’t answer for the identity of the wig,
but the spectacles must have been the very same pair which
formerly adorned the nose of the original David, — just as
saving, as scraping, as humble, as industrious, and, to sum up
all, as miserly as his predecessor ; looking as lean, as shrivelled,
as care-worn, as crouching, and very nearly as old ; and not at
all unlikely — provided he alsOy as your human anatomies so often
do, should wither on to the age of fourscore, — by no means
unlikely to accumulate a plum or two in his own proper person.

0 c 4

THB BlSSBNTINd MINISTER.

S9d

THE DISSENTING MINISTER,

No, Victor ! we shall never meet again. I feel that con-
viction burnt in upon my very heart We part now for the
last time. You are returning to your own beautiful France,
to your family, your home : a captive released from his prison,
an exile restored to his country, gay, fortunate, and happy — -
*what leisure will you have to think of the poor Jane ? "

You forget, Jane, that I am the soldier of a chief at war
with aU Europe, and that, in leaving England, I shall be sent
instantly to fight ^fresh battles against some other nation. It
is my only consolation that the conditions of my exchange
forbid my being again opposed to your countrymen. I go,
dearest, not to encounter the temptations of peace, but the
hardships of war.’*

The heroic hardships, the exciting dangers that you love
so well I Be it so. Battle, victory, peril, or death, on the
one hand ; — on the other, the graces and the blandishments,
the talents and the beauty of your lovely countrywomen !
What chance is there that I should be remembered either in
the turmoil of a campaign, or the gaiety of a capital.^ You
will think of me (if indeed you should ever think of me at
all) but as a part of the gloomiest scenes and the most cloudy
days of your existence. As Belford contrasted with Paris, so
dhaU I seem when placed in competition with some fair
Parisian. No^ Victor ! we part, and I feel that we part for
ever!*'

Cruel and unjust I Shall you forget me?**

No ! To remember when hope is gone, is the melan-
choly privilege of woman. Forget you ! Oh that I could !”

Well then, Jane, my own Jane, put an end at once to
these doubts, to these suspicions. Come with me to France,
to my home. My mother is not rich } — I am one of Napo-
leon’s poorest captains ; but he has deigned to notice me
my promotion, if life be spared to me, is assured ; and, in
the mean time, we have enough for competence, for happi-
ness. Come with me, my own Jane — you whose atfection
has been my only comfort during two years of captivity, come
and share the joys of my release! Nothing can be easier

THB DIBSEliTIXG MINISTER. SQ8

than your flight. No one suspects our attachment. Your
father sleeps ”

And you would have me abandon him ! me, his only
child ! Alas ! Victor, if I were to desert him in his old age,
could / ever sleep again ? Go ! I am rightly punished for a
love which, prejudiced as he is against your nation, 1 knew
that he would condemn. It is fit that a clandestine attach,
ment should end in desolation and misery. Go! but oh,
dearest, talk no more of my accompanying you ; say no more
that you will return to claim me at the peace : both are alike
impossible. Go, and be happy with some younger, fairer
woman! Go, and forget the poor Jane!*’ And so saying,
she gently disengaged her hand, which was clasped in both
his, and passed quickly from the little garden where they
stood into the house, wh^re, for fear of discovery, Victor
dared not follow her.

This dialogue, which, by the way, was held not as I have
given it, in English, but in rapid and passionate French, took
place, at the close of a November evening in the autumn of
1808, between a young officer of the Imperial Army, on
parole in Belford, and Jane Lanham, the only daughter, the
only surviving child, of old John Lanham, a corn-chandler in
the town.

Victor d’Auberval, the officer in question, was a young man
of good education, considerable talent, and a lively and ardent
character. He had been sent, as a favour, to Belford, together
with four or five naval officers, with whom our jeune militaire
had little in common besides his country and his misfortunes ;
and although incomparably better off than those of his com-
patriotes at Norman Cross and elsewhere, who solaced their
leisure and relieved their necessities by cutting dominoes and
other knick-knacks out of bone, and ornamenting baskets and
boxes with flowers and landscapes composed of coloured
straw, yet, being wholly unnoticed by the inhabitants of the
town, and obliged, from the difficulty of obtaining remit-
tances, to practise occasionally a very severe economy, he
would certainly have become a victim to the English malady
with a French name, styled ennui , had he not been pre^
served from that, calamity by falling into the disease of , all
climates, called love.

Judging merely from outward circumstances, no one would

394

THE DI6SBNTINO MINISTER*

seem less likely to captivate the handsome and brilliant
Frenchman than Jane Lanham. Full four or five-and-
twenty^ and looking still older^ — of a common height^ common
she, and, but for her beautiful dark eyes, common features, —
her person, attired, as it always was, with perfect plainness
and simplicity, had nothing to attract observatioh ; and her
station, as the daughter of a man in trade, himself a rigid
dissenter, and living in frugal retirement, rendered their
meeting at all anything but probable. And she, grave,
orderly, staid, demure, — she that eschewed pink ribbons as if
she had been a female Friend, and would have thought it
some sin to wear a bow of any hue in her straw bonnet, —
who would ever have dreamt of Jane Lanham’s being smitten
with a tri-coloured cockade ?

So the matter fell out.

John Lanham was, as we have said, a corn-chandler in
Belford, and one who, in spite of his living in a small gloomy
house, in a dark narrow lane leading from one great street to
another, with no larger establishment than one maid of all
work and a laKl to take care of his horse and chaise, was yet
reputed to possess considerable wealth. He was a dissenter
of a sect rigid and respectable rather than numerous, and it
was quoted in proof of his opulence, that, in rebuilding the
chapel which he attended, he had himself contributed the
magnificent sum of three thousand pounds. He had lost
several children in their infancy, and his wife had died in
bringing Jane into the world ; so that the father, grave, stern,
and severe to others, was yet bound by the tenderest of all
ties, that of her entire helplessness and dependence, to his
motherless girl, and spared nothing that, under his peculiar
views of the world, could conduce to her happiness and well-
being.

His chief adviser and assistant in the little girl's education
was his old friend Mr. Fenton, the minister of the congrega-
tion to which he belonged, — a man shrewd, upright, con-
scientious, and learned, but unfitted for his present post by
two very important disqualifications : first, as an old bachelor
who knew no more of the bringing up of children than of the
training of race-horses ; secondly, as having a complete and
thorough contempt for the sex, whom he considered as so
many animated dolls, or ornamented monkeys, frivolous and

THE DISSENTING MINISTEK^ 395

mischievous, and capable of nothing better than the fulfilment of
the lowest household duties. Teach her to read and to write/*
quoth Mr. Fenton, to keep accounts, to cut out a shirt, to
mend stockings, to make a pudding, and to stay within doors,
and you will have done your duty.”

According to this scale Jane’s education seemed likely to be
conducted, when a short visit from her mother s sister, just as
she had entered her thirteenth year, made a slight addition to
her studies. Her aunt, a sensible and cultivated woman,
assuming that the young person who was being brought up with
ideas so limited was likely to inherit considerable property,
would fain have converted Mr. Lanham to her own more
enlarged and liberal views, have sent her to a good school, or
have engaged an accomplished governess; but this attempt
ended in a dispute that produced a total estrangement between
the parties, and the only fruit of her remonstrances was the
attendance of the good Abbe Villaret as a French master, —
the study of French being, in the eyes both of Mr. Lanham
and Mr. Fenton, a considerably less abomination than that of
music, drawing, and dancing. She’ll make*nothing of it,”
thought Mr. Fenton ; myself did not, though I was at the
expense of a grammar and a dictionary, and worked at it an
hour a day for a month. She'll make nothing of it, so she
may as well try as not.” And the abb^ was sent for, and the
lessons begun.

This was a new era in the life of Jane Lanham. L’Abbe
Villaret soon discovered, through the veil of shyness, awkward*
ness, ignorance, and modesty, the great powers of his pupil.
The difficulties of tl}e language disappeared as by magic, and
she whose English reading had been restricted to the com-
monest elementary books, with a few volumes of sectarian
devotion, and Watts’s Hymns,” (for poetry she had never
known, except the magnificent poetry of the Scriptures, and
the homely but heart-stirring imaginations of the Pilgrim’s
Progress”), was now eagerly devouring the choicest and
purest morceaux of French literature. Mr. Fenton having
interdicted to the abbe the use of any works likely to convert
the young Protestant to the Catholic faith, and Mr. Lanham
(who had never read one in his life) having added a caution
against novels, Jane and her kind instructor were left in other
respects free : her father, who passed almost every day in the

THB DX8SENTWO MINISTER.

396

pursuit of his business in the neighbouring towns^ and his
pastor^ who only visited him in an evenings having no sus-
picion of the many, many hours which she devoted to the
new-born delight of poring over books ; and the abbe knew
so well how to buy books cheaply, and Mr. Lanham gave him
money for her use with so little inquiry as to its destina-
tion, that she soon accumulated a very respectable French
library.

What a new world for the young recluse ! — Racine, Cor-
neille, Crebillon, the tragedies and histories of Voltaire, the
picturesque revolutions of Vertot, the enchanting letters of
Madame de S^vigne, the Causes C^lebres (more interesting
than any novels), the M^moires de Sully (most striking and
most naif of histories), T^lemaque, the Young Anacharsis,
the purest comedies of Moliere and Regnard, the Fables de La
Fontaine, the poems of Delille and of Boileau, the Vert- vert
of Cresset, Le Pere Brumoy’s Theatre des Grecs, Madame
Dacier*8 Homer, — these, and a hundred books like these,
burst as a freshly-acquired sense upon the shy yet ardent girl.
It was like the recovery of sight to one become blind in
infancy ; and the kindness of the abbe, who delighted in an-
swering her inquiries and directing her taste, increased a
thousand-fold the profit and the pleasure which she derived
from her favourite authors.

Excepting her good old instructor, she had no confidant.
Certain that they would feel no sympathy in her gratification,
she never spoke of her books either to her .father or Mr. Fenton;
and they, satisfied with M. F Abbe’s calm report of her attention
to his lessons, made no further inquiries. Her French studies
were, she felt, for herself, and herself alone ; and when his
tragical death deprived her of the friend and tutor whom she
had so entirely loved and respected, reading became more and
more a solitary pleasure. Outwardly calm, silent, and retir-
ing, — an affectionate daughter, an excellent housewife, and
an attentive hostess, — she was Mr. Fenton’s heau idial of a
young woman. Little did he suspect the glowing, enthu-
siastic, and concentrated character that lurked under that
cold exterior — the fire that was hidden under that white and
virgin snow. Purer than she really was he could not fancy
her ; but never would he have divined how much of tenderness
and firmness was mingled with that youthful purity, or how

THE DISSECTING MINISTEB. 397

completely he had himself, by a life of restraint and seclusion,
prepared her mind to yield to an engrossing and lasting
passion.

Amongst her beloved French books, those which she pre-
ferred were undoubtedly the tragedies, the only dramas ^hich
had ever fallen in her way, and which exercised over her
imagination the full power of that most striking and delight-
ful of any species of literature. We who know Shakspeare,

— who have known him from our childhood, and are, as is
were, to his manner born,” — feel at once that, compared
with that greatest of poets, the belles tirades” of Racine
and of CorneiUe are cold, and false, and wearisome ; but to
one who had no such standard by which to measure the
tragic dramatists of France, the mysterious and thrilling
horrors of the old Greek stories which their tragedies so fre-*
quently embodied, — the woes of Thebes, the fated line of
Pelops, the passion of Phaedra, and the desolation of Antigone,

— were full of a strange and fearful power. Nor was the
spell confined to the classical plays. The Tragedies Chre-
tiennes” — Esther and Athalie — Polyeucte and Alzire —
excited at least equal interest ; while the contest between love
and la force du sang,” in The Cid, and Zaire, struck upon
her with all the power of a predestined sympathy. She felt
that she herself was born to such a trial ; and the presentiment
was perhaps, as so often happens, in no small degree the
cause of its own accomplishment.

The accident by which she became acquainted with Victor
d*Auberval may be told in a very few words.

The nurse who had taken to her on the death of her mother,
and who still retained for her the strong affection so often
inspired by foster children, was the wife of a respectable pub-
lican in Queen Street ; and being of excellent private character,
and one of Mr. Fenton's congregation, was admitted to see
Jane whenever she liked, in a somewhat equivocal capacity
between a visitor and dependant.

One evening she came in great haste to say that a Bristol
coach which inned at the Red Lion had just dropped there
two foreigners, a man and a woman, one of whom seemed to
her fancy dying, whilst both appeared miserably poor, and
neither could speak a word to be understood. Wpuld her
dear child come and interpret for the sick lady }

398

THE DISSENTING MINISTER.

Jane went immediately. They were Italian musicians, oii
their way to Bristol, where they hoped to meet a friend and
to procure employment. In the meanwhile, the illness of the
wife had stopped them on their journey ; and their slender
ftuidl Wore, as the husband modesdy confessed, little calculated
to, encounter the expenses of medical assistance and an £n-
l^sh inn.

Jane promised to represent the matter to her father, who,
although hating Frenchmen and papists (hotli of which he
assumed the foreigners to be) with a hatred eminently British
and protestant, was yet too good a Christian to refuse moderate
relief to fellow-creatures in distress ; and between Mr. Lan-
ham*s contributions and the good landlady s kindness, and
what Jane could spare from her own frugally-supplied purse,
the poor Italians (for they were singers from Florence) were
enabled to bear up during a detention of many days.

Before they resumed their journey, their kind interpreter
had heard from the good hostess that they had found another
friend, almost as poor as themselves, and previously unac-
quainted with them, in a French officer on parole in the town,
to whom the simple fact of their being foreigners in distress
in a strange land had supplied the place of recommendation or
introduction ; and when going the next day, laden with a few
comforts for the invalide, to bid them farewell and to see them
off, she met, for the first time, the young officer, who had been
drawn by similar feelings to the door of the Red Lion.

It was a hitter December day — one of those north-east
winds which seem to blow through you, and which hardly
any strength can stand ; and as the poor Italian, in a thin
summer waistcoat and a threadbare coat, took his seat on the
top of the coach, shivering from head to foot, and his teeth
already chattering, amidst the sneers of the bear-skinned
coachman, muffled up to his ears, and his warmly-clad fellow-
passengers, Victor took off his own great-coat, tossed it
smilingly to the freezing musician, and walked rapidly away
as the coach drove off, uttering an exclamation somewhat
similar to Sir Philip Sidney’s at Zutphen — ^^He wants it
more than I do.” *

My friend Mr. Serle has said, in one of the finest plays of

* St. Martin' was canonised for an act altogether similar to that of Victor
d*AuhenraL

THE DISSENTING MINISTER* SQQ

this century, — richer in great plays, let the critics rail as
they will, than any age since the time of Elizabeth and her
immediate successor ; — Mr. Serle, speaking of the master-
passion, has said, in " The Merchant of London,”

** How many doors or entranoes hath love
Into the heart ?—

As manv as the sensei :

All are love's portals ; though, when the proudest comes.

He comes as conqueror's use, by his own ^th •—

And sympathy's that breach.**

And this single instance of sympathy and fellow-feeling (for
the grateful Italians had spoken of Miss Lanham's kindness
to M. d’Auberval) sealed the destiny of two warm hearts,
Victor soon contrived to get introduced to Jane, by their
mutual friend, the landlady of the Red Lion ; and, after that
introduction, he managed to meet her accidentally whenever
there was no danger of interruption or discovery ; which, as
Jane had always been in the habit of taking long, solitary
walks, happened, it must be confessed, pretty often. He was
charmed at the piquant contrast between her shy, retiring
manners, and her ardent and enthusiastic charA:ter ; and his
national vanity found a high gratification in her proficiency
in, and fondness for, his language and literature ; whilst she
(so full of contradictions is love) found no less attraction in
his ignorance of English. She liked to have something to
teach her quick and lively pupil ; and he repaid her instruc-
tions by enlarging her knowledge of French authors, — by
introducing to her the beautiful though dangerous pages of
Rousseau, the light and brilliant writers of memoirs, and the
higher devotional eloquence of Bossuet, Massillon, and Bour-
daloue, — the Lettres Spirituelles of Fenelon, and the equally
beautiful, though very different, works of Le Pere Pascal.

So time wore on. The declaration of love had been made
by one party ; and the confession that that love was returned
had been reluctantly extorted from the other. Of what use
was that confession Never, as Jane declared, would she
marry to displease her father ; — and how, knowing as she
well did all his prejudices, could she hope for his consent to a
union with a prisoner, a soldier, a Frenchman, a Catholic ?
Even Victor felt the impossibility.

Still neither could forego the troubled happiness of these
stolen interviews, chequered as they were with present alarms

400

THE DISSENTING MINISTER.

and future fears. Jane bad no confidant. The reserve and
perhaps the pride of her character prevented her confessing
even to her affectionate nurse a clandestine attachment. But
she half feared that her secret was suspected at least, if not
wholly known, by Mr. Fenton ; and if known to him, assuredly
it would be disclosed to her fatlier ; and the manner in which
a worthy, wealthy, and disagreeable London suitor was pressed
on her by both (for hitherto Mr. Lanham had seemed averse
to her marrying), confirmed her in the apprehension.

Still, however, they continued to meet, until suddenly, and
without any warning, the exchange that restored him to his
country, and tore him from her who had been his consolation
in captivity, burst on them like a thunderclap; and then
Jane, with all the inconsistency of a woman’s heart, forgot her
own vows never to marry him without the consent of her
father, — forgot how impossible it appeared that that consent
should ever be obtained, and dwelt wholly on the fear of his
inconstancy — on the chance of his meeting some fair, and
young, and fascinating Frenchwoman, and forgetting his own
Jane ; whilst he again and again pledged himself, when peace
should come, to return to Belford and carry home in triumph
the only woman he could ever love. Until that happy day,
they agreed, in the absence of any safe medium of commu-
nication, that it would be better not to write ; and so, in the
midst of despondency on the one side, and ardent and sincere
protestations on the other, they parted.

Who* shall describe Jane’s desolation during the long and
dreary winter that succeeded their separation } . That her
secret was known, or at least strongly suspected, appeared to
her certain; and she more than guessed that her father’s
forbearance in not putting into words the grieved displeasure
which he evidently felt, was owing to the kipd but crabbed
old bachelor Mr. Fenton, whose conduct towards herself — or
rather, whose opinion of her powers, appeared to have under-
gone a considerable change, and who, giving her credit for
strength of mind, seemed chiefly bent on spurring her on to
exert that strength to the utmost. He gave proof of that
knowledge of human nature which the dissenting ministers
so frequently possess, by seeking to turn her thoughts into a
different channel ; and by bringing her Milton and Cowper,
and supplying her with English books of history and theology.

THE DISSENTING MINISTER.

401

together with the lives of many pious and eminent men of his
own persuasion, succeeded not only in leading her into an
interesting and profitable course of reading, but in beguiling
her into an unexpected frankness of discussion on the subject
of her new studies.

In these discussions, he soon found the talent of the young
person whom he had so long undervalued ; and constant to
his contempt for the sex (a heresy from which a man who
has fallen into it seldom recovers), began to consider her as a
splendid exception to the general inanity of woman ; a good
opinion which received further confirmation from her devoted
attention to her father, who was seized with a lingering illness
about a twelvemonth after the departure of Victor, of which
he finally died, after languishing for nearly two years, kept
alive only by the tender and incessant cares of his daughter,
and the sympathizing visits of his friend.

On opening the will, his beloved daughter, Jane, was found
sole heiress to a fortune of 70,000/.; — unless she should
intermarry with a soldier, a papist, or a forei^er, in which
case the entire property was bequeathed unreservedly to the
Rev, Samuel Fenton, to be disposed of by him according to
his sole will and pleasure.

Miss Lanham was less afiected by this clause than might
have been expected. Tliree years had now elapsed from the
period of separation ; and she had been so well obeyed, as
never to have received one line from Victor d’AubervaL She
feared that he was dead; she tried to hope that he was
unfaithful ; and the tremendous number of officers that had
fallen in Napoleon’s last battles, rendered the former by far
the more probable catastrophe: — even if he had not pre-
viously fallen, the Russian campaign threatened extermination
to the French army; and poor Jane, in whose bosom hope
had long lain dormant, hardly regarded this fresh obstacle to
her unhappy love. She felt that hers was a widowed heart,
and that her future comfort must be sought in the calm
pleasures of literature, and in contributing all that she could
to the happiness of others.

Attached to Belford by long habit, and by the recollection
of past happiness and past sorrows, she continued in her old
dwelling, making little other alteration in her way of life,
than that of adding two or three servants to her establishment.

THE DISSENTING MINISTER.

and ofPering a home to her mother’s sister — die aunt to whose
intervention she owed the doubtful good of that proficiency in
French which had introduced her to Victor^ and whom unfor-
seen events had now reduced to absolute poverty.

In her she found an intelligent and cultivated companion ;
and in her society and that of Mr. Fenton^ and in the delight
of a daily increasing library, her days passed calmly and
pleasantly ; when, in spite of all her resolutions, her serenity
was disturbed by the victories of the allies, the fall of Napo-
leon, the capture of Paris, and the peace of Europe. Was
Victor dead or alive, — faithless or constant? Would he
seek her ? and seeking her, what would be his disappointment
at the clause that parted them for ever? Ought she to remain
in Belford? Was there no way of ascertaining his fate ?

She was revolving these questions for the hundredth time,
when a knock was heard at the door, and the servant an-
nounced Colonel d’Auberval.

There is no describing such meetings. After sketching
rapidly his fortunes since they parted ; how he had disobeyed
her by writing, and how he had since found that his letters
had miscarried ; and after brief assurances that in his eyes she
was more than ever charming, had gained added grace, ex-
pression, and intelligence, — Jane began to communicate to
him, at first with much agitation, afterwards with collected
calmness, the clause in the will by which she forfeited all her
property in marrying him.

Is it not cruel,” added she, to have lost the power of
enriching him whom I love ? ”

You do love me, then, still?” exclaimed Victor. ^‘Bless-
ings on you for that word ! You are still constant ? ”

Constant ! Oh, if you could have seen my heart during
these long, long years ! If you could have imagined how the
thought of you mingled with every recollection, every feeling,
every hope I But to bring you a penniless wife, Victor —
for even the interest of this money since my father’s death,
which might have been a little portion, I have settled upon
my poor aunt; to take advantage of your generosity, and
burthen you with a dowerless wife, — never handsome, no
longer young, inferior to you in every way, — ought I to do
so ? Would it be just ? would it be right ? Answer me,
Victor.”

THE DISSENTING MINISTER.

40S

Rather tell me, would it be just and right to deprive you
of the splendid fortune you would use so well ? Would you,
for my sake, for love and for competence, forego the wealth
which is your own ?

Would I ? Oh, how can you ask ! "

Will you, then, my own Jane ? Say yes, dearest, and
never will we think of this money again. I have a mother
worthy to be yours — a mother who will love and value you
as you deserve to be loved ; and an estate with a small chateau
at the foot of the Pyrenees, beautiful enough to make an
emperor forget his throne. Share it with me, and we shall
be happier in that peaceful retirement than ever monarch was
or can be ! You love the country. You have lost none of
the simplicity which belonged to you, alike from taste and
from habit. You will not miss these riches ?*'

Oh, no ! no ! ”

And you will be mine, dearest and faithfullest ? Mine,
heart and hand ? Say yes, mine own Jane V*

And Jane did whisper, between smiles and tears, that
yes,’' which her faithful lover was never weary of hearing ;
and in a shorter time than it takes to tell it, all the details of
the marriage were settled.

In the evening, Mr. Fenton, whom Miss Lanham had in-
vited to tea, arrived ; and in a few simple words, Jane intro-
duced Colonel d'Auberval, explained their mutual situation,
and declared her resolution of relinquishing immediately the
fortune which, by her father’s will, would be triply forfeited
by her union with a soldier, a foreigner, and a Catholic.

“ And your religion } " inquired Mr. Fenton, somewhat
sternly.

Shall ever be sacred in my eyes,” replied Victor, solemn-
ly. My own excellent mother is herself a Protestant and
a Calvinist. There is a clergyman of that persuasion at Bay-
onne. She shall find every facility for the exercise of her own
mode of worship. I should love her less, if I thought her
capable of change.”

Well, but this money: — Are you sure, young man,
that you yourself will not regret marrying a portionless
wife ?

Quite sure. I knew nothing of her fortune. It was a
portionless wife that I came hither to seek.”

D D 2

404

THE DISSENTING MINISTER.

And you, Jane ? Can you abandon this wealth, which,
properly used, comprises in itself the blessed power of doing
good, of relieving misery, of conferring happiness ? Can you
leave your home, your country, and your friends ? ”

Oh, Mr. Fenton !” replied Jane, " I shall regret none
but you. His home will he my home, his country my coun-
try. My dear aunt will, I hope, accompany us ; I shall leave
nothing that I love but you, my second father. And for this
fortune, which, used as it should be used, is indeed a blessing

— do I not leave it in your hands ? And am I not sure that
with you it will be a fund for relieving misery and conferring
happiness ? I feel that if, at this moment, he whom I have
lost could see into my heart, he would approve my resolution,
and would bless the man who had shown such disinterested
affection for his child.”

In bis name and my own, I bless you, my children,”
rejoined Mr. Fenton ; and as his act and my own do I
restore to you the forfeited money. No refusals, young man I

— no arguments ! no thanks ! It is yours, and yours only.
Listen to me, Jane. This will, for which any one less ge-
nerous and disinterested than yourself would have hated me,
was made, as you must have suspected, under my direction.
I had known from your friend, the hostess of the Red Lion,
of your mutual attachment ; and was on the point of putting
a stop to your interviews, when an exchange, unexpected by
all parties, removed M. d’Auberval from Belford. After your
separation, it would have been inflicting needless misery to
have reproached you with an intercourse which we had every
reason to believe completely at an end. I prevailed on my
good friend to conceal his knowledge of the engagement, and
tried all I could to turn your thoughts into a different chan-
nel. By these means I became gradually acquainted with
your firmness and strength of mind, your ardour and your
sensibility ; and having made minute and searching inquiries
into the character of your lover, I began to think, little as an
old bachelor is supposed to know of those matters, that an
attachment between two such persons was likely to be an
attachment for life ; and I prevailed on Mr. Lanham to add
to his will the clause that you have seen, that we might prove
the disinterestedness as well as the constancy of the lovers.
Both are proved,” continued the good old man, a smile of the

BELFOBD RACES.

405

purest benevolence softening his rugged features, both are
proved to my entire satisfaction; and soldier, Frenchman,
and Papist though he be, the sooner I join your hands and
get quit of this money, the better. Not a word, my dear
Jane, unless to fix the day. Surely you are not going to
compliment me for doing my duty ! I don't know how I
shall part with her, though, well as you deserve her,” con-
tinued he, turning to Colonel d’Auberval ; you must bring
her sometimes to Belford." And, passing the back of his
withered band across his eyes to brush off the unusual softness,
the good dissenting minister walked out of the room.

BELFORD RACES.

Belford Races, — The Races, as the inhabitants of the town
and neighbourhood were pleased to call them, as if they had
been the races par excellence of the kingdom, surpassing Epsom,
and Ascot, and Doncaster, and Newmarket, instead of being
the most trumpery meeting that ever brought horses to run for
a. plate — are, I am happy to say, a non-existing nuisance.
The only good that I ever knew done by an enclosure act was
the putting an end to that Iniquity.

Generally speaking, enclosures seem to me lamentable things.
They steal away from the landscape the patches of woodland,
the shady nooks and tangled dingles, the wild heathy banks
and primrosy dells, the steep ravines and deep irregular pools,—
all, in short, that the artist loves to paint and the poet to
fancy, — all that comes into our thoughts when we talk of the
country ; and they give us, instead, hedge-rows without a tree,
fields cut into geometrical lines, and Macadamized roads,
which, although as straight and as ugly as the most thorough*
going utilitarian can desire, do yet contrive to be more incon*
venient and farther about than the picturesque by-ways of the
elder time. Moreover, let political philosophy preach as it
will, an enclosure bill is a positive evil to the poor. They
lose by it the turf and furze for their fuel, — the odd noolu
adjoining their cottages, which they sometimes begged front
the lord of the manor ; and sometimes, it must be confessed,

D D 3

BVlUrOBD RAOBg.

406

iBiok without pYeUB^inaiyr^ooY^^ wiA all thefts were
as innocent)^ to estivate for a garden ; Whilst the advantage
of a. village green to their little stock of pigs and poultry was
ihetteulaUe* But all this is beside my purpose. However,
according to the well-known epigram, to steal a common
£rooi a goose '' may be an evil, to steal a common from the
races must be a good; andjwhen the enclosure of Belford
Heath put an end to that wearisome annual festivity, 1 believe
verily diat there were not twenty people about the place who
did not rejoice in the loss of those dullest of all dull gaieties.

Even the great races are tiresome things ; they last so long,
and of the amusement, such as it is, you see so little. More-
over, the weather is never good : it is sure to be dusty, or
showery, or windy, or sunny ; sometimes it is too hot, gene-
rally it is too cold ; — 1 never knew it right in my life. Then,
although the crowd is such that it seems as if all the world
were on the ground, you are quite sure never to meet the
person you want to see, and have very often the provoking
mortification of finding, by one of those accidents which at
races always Happen, that you have missed each other by five
minutes. The vaunted company is nothing compared with
the Zoological Gardens on a Sunday. You lose your party —
you have to wait for your servants — you lame your horses —
you scratch your carriage — you spoil your new bonnet — you
tear your best pelisse — you come back tired, and hungry, and
cross — you catch a cold or a fever ; and your only compen-
sation for all these evils is, that you have the power of saying
to some neighbour wise enough to stay at home,— have
been to the races !"

These calamities, however, belong to the grand meetings,
where horses of name and fame, ridden by jockeys of equal
renown, run for the Derby, the Oaks, or the St. Leger ; where
ladies win French gloves and gentlemen lose English estates ;
where you are at all events sure of a crowd, and pretty sure of
a crowd of beauty and fashion; where, if your pocket be
picked, it is ten to one but a lord is equally unlucky ; and if
you get drenched by a shower, you have the comfort of seeing
a countess in the same condition.

^ Our Belford afflictions were of a different sort. The Heath,
wluch> contrary to the general picturesqueness of commons,
yha a dull, fia^ low, unprofitable piece of ground> wholly un-

BELFOBD BAOBSk

Wf

interesting in itself^ and commanding no view of any aort> had
been my aversion as long as I could remember ; having been
for many years the scene of those reviews of volunteers and
yeomanry, presentations of cdours, and so forth^ which formed
the delight of his majesty’s noise-loving subjects.^ and were to
me, who hated the sound of a gun like a hurt wild duck,’^
the bbjects of mingled dread and detestation, — the more espe-
cially as, besides its being in those days reckoned a point of
loyalty not to miss such exhibitions, people used to inculcate
it as a duty to take me amongst guns, and drums, and trumpets,
by way of curing my cowardice. Once 1 had the pleasure of
baffling their good intentions. It was a fine day in the mid-
summer holidays, and my dear mother taking a young lady
with her in the carriage, I rode with my father in the gig, he
having been tormented by some sage adviser into taking me
into the held, and thinking that the most palatable manner ;
and I so ordered matters by mere dint of coaxing, that happen-
ing to be early on the ground, I prevailed on my near com-
panion to turn back, and drive me home again before the
arrival of the reviewing general ; thus escapiri|; the shock of
the salute after the lashion of the patient who, being ordered
to take a shower-bath, jumped out before pulling the string.

Well, this ugly piece of ground numbered amongst its de-
merits that of being the worst race-course in England. Flat
as it looked, it was found on examination to be full of inequa-
lities, going up hill and down hill just in the very parts where,
for certain reasons which I do not pretend to understand, (all
my knowledge of the turf being gathered from die early part
of Holcroft’s Memoirs, one of the most amusing pieces of
autobiography in the language,) it ought to have been as level
as a railroad. Then, for as dry as it seemed-— a dull expanse
of dwarf furze and withered heath, there were half-a-dozen
places so incurably boggy, that once in a sham fight at a
review half a company of the Belford volunteer legion sunk
knee-deep, to their own inexpressible consternation, the total
derangement of the order of battle, and the utter ruin of dieir
white spatterdashes :« and in order to avoid these marshy spots,
certain awkward bends occurred in the course, which made as
great demands on the skill of the jockeys as the sticking fast
of his troops had done on the tactics of the reviewing generaL
In a word, as a race-course Belford Heath was so detestable^
D D 4

408

BBLFORD RAOBS.

that a race-horse of any reputation would have been ashamed
to show his face there.

Then the only circumstance that could have reconciled the
owners of good horses to a bad course — high stakes and large
subscriptions — were totally wanting. There was, to be sure,
a county member’s plate and a town member’s plate, and the
Belford stakes and the hunt stakes ; and a popular high sheriff,
or a candidate for the borough or the county, who had a mind
to be popular, — or some Londoner, freshly imported, who
thought supporting the races a part of his new duties as a
country gentleman, — would get up something like a sub-
scription : but nothing could be less tempting than the rewards
held out to the winners,[and but for the speculations of certain
horse-dealers, who reckoned on its being advantageous to the
sale of a horse to have won a plate even at Belford, the races
would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground from the mere
absence of racers.

As it was, they languished on from year to year, every
season worse than the last, with no company except the fami-
lies of the neighbourhood, no sporting characters, no gentlemen
of the turf, no betting stand, no blacklegs,* no thimble people,
no mob. The very rouge et noir table did not think it worth
its while to appear ; and although there was a most convenient
pond for ducking such delinquents, I do not even remember
to have heard of a pickpocket on the race-course.

The diversion was, as 1 have said, confined to the neigh-
bourhood ; and they, poor innocent people, were, for the three
days that the affair lasted, kept close to that most fatiguing of
all work, country dissipation. The meeting was held early in
Septeml^r, and the hours having undergone no change since
its first establishment a century before, it was what is termed
an afternoon race : accordingly, besides a public breakfast at
ten o’clock injthe Town Hall, there was an ordinary at two at
the Swan Hotel for ladies as well as gentlemen : then every-
body drove at four to the course ; then everybody came back
to dress for the ball ; and on the middle evening, when luckily
there was no ball, everybody was expected to go to the play.
And to miss, only for one day, the race-course, or the two
balls, or the middle play, was an affront to the stewards and
the atewards’ wives,— to the members who dared not be ab-
sent—* to the young ladies, who, not of sufficient rank or

BBLFOBD RACES,

409

fortune to be presented at court, first made their appearance
at this august re-union of fashion and beauty — to the papas,
mammas, and maiden aunts, to whom the ceremony was im-
portant, — to the whole neighbourhood and the whole county.
The public breakfasts and ordinaries were not de rigueur ; but
three races, two balls, and one play, were duties that must be
fulfilled, punishments that must be undergone by all who de-
sired to stand well in country society : to have attempted to
evade them, — to have dared to think for yourself in a matter
of amusement, would have been to run the risk of being thought
over-wise, or over-good, or parsimonious, or poor. And as no
one likes the three first of these nicknames, and it is only rich
people who can afford to be suspected of poverty, dull as the
diversions were, and Vriste as the gaieties, we were content to
leave shade, and coolness, and quiet, and to pass three of the
hottest days of early autumn amid fatigue and dust, and sun
and crowd, on the very same wise principle of imitation which
makes a flock of geese follow the gander.

Lightly as the county was apt to set by the town, the inha-
bitants of Belford were of no small use on this occasion. They
helped (like supernumeraries on the stage) to fill the ball-room
and the theatre ; and thinly covered as the race-course was, it
would have looked emptier still but for the handsome coach of
the Misses Morris — for Miss Blackalfs chariot, with her black
servant in his gayest livery and her pet poodle in his whitest
coat on the box, and Mrs. Colby snugly intrenched in the best
corner — for Stephen Lane and dear Margaret in their huge
one-horse chaise, with a pretty grandchild betwixt them— -
for King Harwood galloping about the ground in ten places at
once — for the tradespeople and artisans of the place, (I do
love a holiday for them, whatever name it bears — they have
too few,) down to the poor chimney-sweepers and their donkey,
taking more interest in the sport than their betters, and enjoy-
ing it full as much.

Still the town ladies were little better than the figurante, the
Coryphws in this grand ballet, — the young county damsels,
were the real heroines of the scene ; and it was to show them
off that their mammas and their waiting women, their milliners
and their coachmakers, devoted all their cares ; and amongst
the fair candidates for admiration few were more indefotigably
fine, more perseveringly fashionable, more constant to all sorts

410

BELFORD RACES.

of provincial gaiety, whether race, concert, play, or ball, than
the Misses Elphinstone of Ashley, who had beeivfor ten years,
and perhaps a little longer, two of the reignin* belles of the
county.

Why it should be so, one does not well know, but half the

ladies of H shire used to meet every Monday between

the hours of three and five in the Market-place of Belford.
It was the constant female rendezvous. On Saturday, the
market-day, the gentlemen came into town to attend the bench,
— some on horseback, some in gigs, the style of the equipage
not unfrequently in an inverse ratio to the consequence of the
owner ; your country gentleman of large fortune being often
addicted to riding* some scrubby pony, or driving some old
shabby set-out, which a man of less certain station would be
ashamed to be seen in : so that their appearance harmonized
perfectly well with the carts and waggons of their tenants, the
market people of Belford. Their wives and daughters, how-
ever, indulged in no such whims. True to the vanities of the
dear sex, laudably constant to finery of all sorts, as regularly
as Monday came were they to be seen in carriages the most
fashionable, draw by the handsomest horses that coaxing or
lecturing could extort from their husbands and fathers, crowded
round the shop-door of Mr. Dobson, linen-draper and haber-
dasher, the most approved factor of female merchandise, and
the favourite minister to female caprice in the whole county of

H ; and amongst the many equipages which clustered

about this grand mart of provincial fashion, none were more
punctual, and few better appointed, than that of the Elphin-
stoues of Ashley.

Mr. Elphinstone was a gentleman of large landed property ;
but the estate being considerably involved and strictly entailed,
and the eldest son showing no desire to assist in its extrication,
he was in point of fact a much poorer man than many of his
neighbours with less than half of his nominal income. His
wife, a lady of good family, had been what is called a fine
woman ; by which is understood a tall, showy figure, good
hair, good teeth, good eyes, a tolerable complexion, and a face
that comes somewhat short of what is commonly reckoned
handsome. According to this definition, Mrs. Elphinstone
had been, and her two elder daughters were, fine women ; and
as they dressed well, were excellent dancers, had a good deal

BELFORD RACES.

411

of air and style, and were at least half a head taller than the
other young kdies of the county, they seldom failed to attract
considerable flimiration in the ball-room.

That their admirers went ai the most no farther than a
transient flirtation is to be accounted for, not so much by any
particular defect in the young ladies, who were pretty much
like other show-off girls, but by the certainty of their being
altogether portionless. Very few men can afford to select
wives with high notions and no fortune ; and unwomanly and
unmaidenly as the practice of husband-hunting is, whether in
mothers or daughters, there is at least something of mitigation
in the situation of young women like Gertrude and Julia
Elphinstone, — accustomed to every luxury and indulgence, to
all the amusements and refinement of cultivated society, and
yet placed in such a position, that if not married before the
death of their parents, they are thrown on the charity of their
relations for the mere necessaries of life. With this prospect
before their eyes, their anxiety to be settled certainly admits of
some extenuation ; and yet in most cases, and certainly in the
present, that very anxiety is but too likely to defeat its object.

Year after year passed away : — Mr. Elphinstone's family,
consisting, besides the young ladies whom I have already
mentioned, of four or five younger lads in the army, the navy,
at college, and at school, and of a weakly girl, who, having
been sent to be nursed at a distant relation's, the wife of a
gentleman-farmer at some distance, still remained in that
convenient but ignoble retreat — became every year more
and more expensive ; whilst the chances of his daughters’
marriage diminished with their increasing age and his de-
creasing income. The annual journey to London had been
firif t shortened, then abandoned ; visits to Brighton and Chel-
tenham, and other places of fashionable resort, became less
frequent ; and the Belford races, where, in spite of Mr.
L.phinstone’s reputed embarrassments, they stiU flourished
amongst the county belles, became their principal scene of
exhibition.

Race-ball after race-ball, however, came and departed, and
})rought nothing in the shape of a suitor to the expecting
damsels. Partners for the dance presented themselves in
plenty, but partners for life were still to seek. And Mrs.
h^lpliinstone, in pettish despair, was beginning, on the flrst

BELFOBD RAGES.

^1*

of the very last year of the races^ to rejoice at the
{vroi^t of their being giyen up ; to discover ^at the balls
ireio fatiguing^ the course dreary, and the theJK dull ; that
the whole affair was troublesome and tiresome; that it was in
.the yery worst taste to be running after so paltry an ainuse-
ment at the rate of sixteen hours a day for three successive
days ; — when, in the very midst of her professions of disgust
and indifference, as she was walking up the assembly-room
with her eldest daughter hanging on her arm, (Miss Julia, a
little indisposed and a little tired, not with the crowd, but the
emptiness of the race-ground, having chosen to stay at home,)
her hopes were suddenly revived by being told in a very sig-
nificant manner by one of the stewards, that Lord Lindore
had requested of him the honour of being presented to her
daughter. He had seen her in the carriage that afternoon,’*
said the friendly master of the ceremonies, with a very intel-
ligible smile, and an abrupt stop as the rapid advance of the
young gentleman interrupted his speech and turned his in-
tended confidence into — My Lord, fidlow me the pleasure
of introducing you to Miss Elphinstone.”

Mr. Clavering*s suspicions were pretty evident ; and al-
Uiough the well-bred and self-commanded chaperon contrived
to conceal her comprehension of his hints, and preserved the
most decorous appearance of indifference, she yet managed to
extract from her kind neighbour, that the elegant young no-
bleman who was leading the fair Gertrude to the dance was
just returned from a tour in Greece and Germany, and being
on his way to an estate about thirty miles off in the vale of
Berkshire, had been struck on accidentally visiting the Belford
race-course by the beauty of a young lady in an open landau,
and having ascertained that the carriage belonged to Mr. El-
phinstone, and that the family would certainly attend the ball,
be had stayed, as it seemed, for the sole purpose of being
introduced. " So at least says report,” added Mr. Clavering ;
and for once report said true.

Lord Lindore was a young nobleman of large but embar-
rassed property, very good talents, and very amiable disposi-
tion; who was, in spite of his many excellent qualities,
returning loiteringly and reluctantly home to one of the best
and cleverest mothers in the world r and a less fair reason
than die sweet and blooming face which peeped out so brightly

BELFORD RACES.

41^

from under the brim of her cottage-bonnet (for cottage-bott*
nets were the fashion of that distant day) would have excused
him to himtlif for a longer delay than that of the race-ball ;
his good mother^ kind and clever as she was^ having by a
letter entreating his speedy return contrived to make that re-
turn as unpleasant as possible to her affectionate and dutiful
son^ — wbo^ as a dutiful and affectionate son^ obediently turned
his face towards Glenbam Abbey, whilst as a spoilt child and
a peer of the realm, and in those two characters pretty much
accustomed to carry matters his own way, he managed to
make his obedience as dawdling and as dilatory as possible.

The letter which had produced this unlucky effect was an
answer to one written by himself from Vienna, announcing
the dissolution of a matrimonial engagement with a pretty
Austrian, who had jilted him for the purpose of marrying a
count of the Holy Roman empire old enough to be her grand-
father:— on which event Lord Lindore, whose susceptibility
to female charms was so remarkable that ever since he had
attained the age of sixteen he had been in love with some
damsel or other, and had been twenty times* saved from the
most preposterous matches by the vigilance of his tutors and
the care of his fond mother, gravely felicitated himself on
being emancipated, then and for ever, from the dominion ^of
beauty; and declared, that if ever he should love again —
which he thought unlikely — he should seek for nothing in
woman but the unfading graces of the mind. Lady Lindore’s
reply contained a warm congratulation on her son^s release
from the chains of an unprincipled coquette, and from the
evils of an alliance with a foreigner ; adding, that she rejoiced
above all to find that his heart was again upon his hands,
since on the winding up of his affairs, preparatory to his
coming of age, his guardians and herself had discovered that,
long as his minority had been, the accumulations consequent
thereupon were entirely swallowed up by the payment of his
sister's portions ; and the mortgages that encumbered his
property could only be cleared away by the sale of the beau-
tiful demesne on which she had resided during his absence
abroad, — and which, although the estate that had been longest
in the family, was the only one not strictly entailed, — or by
the less painful expedient of a wealthy marriage.— And now
that your heart is free,” continued Lady Lindore, there can

414

BELFORD RACES*

be but little doubt which measure you will adopt ; the more
especially as 1 have a young lady in view^ whose talents and
attainments are of no common order^ whose temper and dis-
position are most amiable^ and who wants nothing but that
outward beauty which you have at last been taught to estimate
at its just value. Plain as you may possibly think her, her
attractions of mind are such as to compensate most amply for
the absence of more perishable charms ; whilst her fortune is
so large that it would clear off all mortgages, without involv-
ing the wretched necessity of parting with this venerable man-
sion, which you have scarcely seen since you were a child, but
which is alike precious as a proud memorial of family splen-
dour, and as one of' the finest old buildings in the kingdom.
The lady’s friends are most desirous of the connexion, and
she herself loves me as a daughter. The path is straight be-
fore you. Return, therefore, as speedily as possible, my dear
Arthur ; and remember, whatever perils from bright eyes and
rosy cheeks may beset you on your way, that I expect from
your duty and your affection that you will not commit your-
self either by Word or deed, by open professions or silent
assiduities, until you have had an opportunity, not merely of
seeing, but of becoming intimately acquainted with the
amiable and richly-gifted young person wlTom, of all the
wimen I have ever known, I would most readily select as your
bride. Come, then, my dearest Arthur, and come speedily, to
your affectionate mother, Mary Lindore.*'

How so clear-headed a woman as Lady Lindore could write a
letter so likely to defeat its own obvious purpose, and to awaken
the spirit of contradiction in the breast of a young man, who,
with all his acknowledged kindness of temper, had never been
found wanting in a petulant self-will, would be difficult to ex-
plain, except upon the principle that the cleverest people often
do the silliest diings ; — a maxim, from the promulgation of
which so many very stupid and very well-meaning persons de-
rive pleasure, that to contradict it, even if one could do so
conscientiously, would be to deprive a very large and estimable
portion of the public of a source of enjoyment which does
harm to nobody, inasmuch as the clever persons in question
have an unlucky trick of caring little for what the worthy dull
people aforesaid may happen to think or say.

BELVORD RACES*

415

Whatever motive might have induced her ladyship to Errite
this letter, the effect was such as the reader has seen. Her
dutiful son Arthur returned slowly and reluctantly homeward;
loitering wherever he could find an excuse for loitering,
astounding his active courier and alert valet by the dilatoriness
of his movements, meditating all the way on the odiousness of
blue- stocking women, (for from Lady Lindore's account of la
future^ he expected an epitome of all the arts and sciences —
a walking and talking encyclopedia,) and feeling his taste for
beauty grow stronger and stronger every step he took, until he
finally surrendered his heart to the Crst pair of bright eyes
and blooming cheeks which he had encountered since the re*-
ceipt of his mother’s letter — the pretty incognita of the Bel-
ford race-course.

Finding on inquiry that the carriage belonged to a gentle-
man of some consequence in the neighbourhood — that the
ladies seated in it were his wife and daughters, and that there
was little doubt of their attending the ball in the evening, he
proceeded to the assembly-room, made himself known, as we
have seen, to our friend Mr. Clavering, one of the stewards of
the races, and requested of him the honour of an introduction
to Miss lElphinstone.

When led up in due form to the fair lady, he immediately
discovered that she was not the divinity of the land^ : but as
he had ascertained, both from Mr. Clavering and the waiter
at the inn, that there was another sister, a certain Miss Julia,
whom his two authorities agreed in calling the finer woman ;
and as he learned from his partner herself that Miss Julia had
been that morning on the race-ground, — that she was slightly
indisposed, but would probably be sufficiently recovered on the
morrow to attend both the course and the play — he deter-
mined to remain another night at Belford for the chance of
one more glimpse of his fair one, and paid Miss Elphinstone
sufficient attention to conceal his disappointment and command
a future introduction to her sister, although he had too much
self-control, and, to do him justice, too much respect for
Lady Lindore’s injunctions, to avail himself of the invitation
of the lady of the mansion to partake of a late breakfast, or an
early dinner -r- call it how he chose — the next day at Ashley.
He saw at a glance that she was a manoeuvring mamma, (how
very, very soon young gentlemen learn to make that discoi.

B£I^FOm> RACES*

m

Very*!) and, his charmer being absent^ was upon his guard.
** On ihe eonm/* thought he^ 1 sh^ again see the beauty^
and then ■>i* >.*.»why then 1 ishi^ be guided by circumstances : ’’
— [that being the most approved and circumspect way of signi-
fying to tme’s self that one intends following one’s own devices^
whatsoever they may happen to be.

The morrow, however, proved so wet that the course was
entirely deserted. Not a single carriage was present, except
Miss Blackall’s chariot and Stephen Lane’s one-horse chaise.
But in the evening, at the theatre. Lord Lindore had again
the pleasure of seeing its fair enchantress, and of seeing hei
without her bonnet, and dressed to the greatest possible ad-
vantage in a very simply-made gown of clear muslin, without
any other ornament than a nosegay of geranium and blos-
somed myrtle.

If he had thought her pretty under the straight brim of her
cottage bonnet, he thought her still prettier now that her fair
open forehead was only shaded by the rich curls of her chest-
nut hair. It was a round, youthful face, with a bright, clear
complexion ; a*hazel eye, with a spark in it like the Scotch
agate in the British Museum ; very red lips, very white teeth,
and an expression about the corners of the mouth that was
quite bewitching. She sat in the front row of the box between
her stately sister and another young lady ; her mother and
two other ladies sitting behind her, and completely barring all
access.

Lord Lindore hardly regretted this circumstance, so com-
pletely was he absorbed in watching his charmer, whose every
look and action evinced the most perfect unconsciousness of
being an ohjei^ of observation to him or to any one. Her at-
tention was given entirely, exclusively to the stage ; she being
perhaps the one single person in the crowded house who
, thought of the play, and of the play only. The piece was one
of Mr. Colman’s laughing and crying comedies — John Bull,
— and she laughed at Dennis Brulgluddery and cried at Job
Thomberry with a heartiness and sensibility, a complete aban-
donment to the sentiment and the situation, that irresistibly
suggested the idea of its being the first play she had ever seen.
It was acted pretty much as such pieces (unless in the case of
some rare exception) are acted in a country theatre ; but hers
was no critical pleasure : yielding entirely to the impression of

BBLFOB0 BACBg«

m

the drama^ the finest performance conld not have gratified her
more. To her^ as to an artless but intelligent child^ the so^e
was for the moment a reality. The illusion was perfect, and
the sympathy evinced by her tears and her laughter was as
unrestrained as it was ai^ent. Her mother and sister, who
had the bad taste to be ashamed of this enviable freshness of
feeling, tried to check her. But the attempt was vain. Ab*
sorbed in the scene, she hardly heard them ; and even when
the curtain dropped, she seemed so engrossed by her recollec-
tions as scarcely to attend to her mother s impatient summons
to leave the house.

'^Charming creature!*' thought Lord Lindore to himself,
as be sat taking his ease in his inn," after his return from
the theatre ; Charming creature ! — how delightful is this
artlessness, this ignorance, this bewitching youthfulness of
heart and of person ! How incomparably superior is this
lovely girl, full of natural feeling, of intelligence and sen-
sibility, to an over-educated heiress, with the whole code of
criticism at her finger’s end — too practised to be astonished,
and too wise to be pleased I A young lady of •high attain-
ments I Twenty languages, I warrant me, and not an idea !
Ugly too ! " — thought poor Lord Lindore. And then the
beauty of the Bel ford theatre passed before his eyes, and he
made up his mind to stay another day and ascertain at least
if the voice were as captivating as the countenance.

Again was poor Arthur doomed to disappointment. The
day was, if possible, more wet and dreary than the preceding;
and on going into the ball-room and walking straight to Mrs.
Elphinstone, image to yourself, gentle reader, his dismay at
finding in Miss Julia an exact fac-simile of her elder sister, —
another tall, stylish, fashionable-looking damsel, not very old,
but of a certainty not what a lordling of one-and- twenty is
accustomed to call young. Poor dear Arthur ! if Lady Lin-
dore could but have seen how blank he looked, she would have
thought him almost enough punished for his disobedient me-
ditations of the night before. His lordship was, however, a
thoroughly well-bred man, and after a moment of consterna-
tion recovered his politeness and his self-possession.

Was there not another young lady besides Miss Elphin-
stone and yourself in the carriage on Tuesday, and at the play
last night ? ” inquired Lord Lindore in a pause of the dance.

K B

418

BELFORD races.

I was not at the play,” responded Miss J ulia, — but I
suppose you mean Katy, poor dear Katy !”

And who may Katy be ? *' demanded his lordship.

“ Oh, poor little Katy ! — she’s a sister of mine, a younger
sister.”

“Very young, I presume? — not come out yet? — not in-
troduced ? ”

“ Yes ! — no !” said Miss Julia, rather puzzled. “ I don't
know — I can’t tell. The fact is, my lord, that Katy does
not live with us. She was a sickly child, and sent for change
of air to a distant relation of my mother’s — a very good sort
of person indeed, very respectable and very well off, but who
made a strange mesalliance. I believe her husband is a gen-
tleman farmer, or a miller, or a malster, or something of that
sort, so that they cannot be noticed by the family ; but as
they were very kind to Ka.ty, and wished to keep her, having
no children of their own, and the place agreed with her, she
has stayed on with them. Mamma often talks of having her
home. But §he is very fond of them, and seems happy there,
and has been so neglected, poor thing * that perhaps it is best
that she should stay. And they are never contented without
her. They sent for her home this morning. I don't wonder
that they love her,” added Miss Julia, ^‘for she's a sweet
natural creature, so merry and saucy, and artless and kind.
Everybody is glad when she comes, and sorry when she goes.'*

This was praise after Lord Lindore's own heart, and he
tried to prolong the conversation.

“ Would she have come to the ball to-night if she had
stayed ? ”

“ Oh no ! She would not come on Tuesday. She never
was at a dance in her life. But she wanted exceedingly to go
to another play, and I dare say that papa would have taken
her. She was enchanted with the play.”

That I saw. She showed great sensibility. Her educa-
tion has been neglected, you say ? ”

She has had no education at all, except from the old
rector of the parish, — a college tutor or some such oddity ;
and she is quite ignorant of all the things that other people
know, but very quick and intelligent ; so that”— —

Miss Julia Elphinstone,” said Mr. Clavering, coming up
to Lord Lindore and his partner, and interrupting a colloquy

BELFORD RACES.

419

in which our friend Arthur was taking much interest, —

Miss Julia Elphinstone, Lady Selby has sprained her ancle,
and is obliged to sit down ; so that I must call upon you to
name this dance. Come, young ladies ! — to your places !
What dance do you call. Miss Julia?"

And in balancing between the merits of The Dusty
Miller ” and Money Musk " (for this true story occurred in
the merry days of country dances), and then in mastering the
pleasant difficulties of going down an intricate figure and re-
marking on the mistakes of the other couples, the subject
dropped so effectually that it was past the gentleman’s skill to
recall.

Nor could he extort a word on the topic from his next
partner, Miss Elphinstone, who, somewhat cleverer than her
sister — colder, prouder, and more guarded, took especial pains
to conceal what she esteemed a blot on the family escutcheon
from one whose rank would, she thought, make him still more
disdainful than herself of any connection with the yeomanry,
or, as she called them, the farmer and miller people of the
country. He could not even learn the place of fiis fair one’s
residence, or the name of the relations with whom she liyed,
and returned to his inn in a most unhappy frame of mind,
dissatisfied with himself and with all about him.

A sleepless night had, however, the not uncommon effect
of producing a wise and proper resolution. He determined
to proceed immediately to Glenham, and open his mind to his
fond mother, — the friend, after all, most interested in his
happiness, and most likely to enter into his feelings, however
opposed they might be to her oitn views. " She has a right
to my confidence, kind and indulgent as she has" always been
— I will lay my whole heart before her,” thought Arthur.
He had even magnanimity enough to determine, if she insisted
upon the measure, that he would take a look at the heiress.

Seeing is not marrying,” thought Lord Lindore ; and
if she be really as ugly and as pedantic as I anticipate, 1 shall
have a very good excuse for getting off — to say nothing of
the chance of her disliking me. I’ll see her, at all events, —
that can do no harm ; and then — why then — alors comme
ahrs ! as my friend the baron says. At all events. I’ll see
her.”

In meditations such as these passed the brief and rapid
E E 2

420

BELFORD RAOEfU

journey between Belford and Glenham. The morning was
brilliantly beautiful, the distance little more than thirty miles,
and it was still early in the day when the noble oaks of his
ancestral demesne rose before him in the splendid foliage of
autumn.

The little village of Glenham was one of those oases of
verdure and cultivation which are sometimes to be met with
in the brown desert of the Berkshire Downs. It formed a
pretty picture to look down upon from the top of one of the
turfy hills by which it was surrounded : the cottages and cot-
tage gardens ; the church rising amongst lime- trees and yews;
the parsonage close by ; the winding road ; the great farm-
house, with its suburb of ricks and barns, and stables and
farm -buildings, surrounded by richly-timbered meadows, ex-
tensive coppices, and large tracts of arable land ; and the
abbey, with its beautiful park, its lake, and its woods, stretch-
ing far into the distance, — formed an epitome of civilised
life in all its degrees, — an island of fertility and comfort in
the midst of desolation. Lord Lindore felt, as he gazed, that
to be the owner of Glenham was almost worth the sacrifice of
a young man s fancy.

Still more strongly did this feeling press upon him, mixed
with all the tenderest associations of boyhood, as, in passing
between the low Gothic lodges, the richly- wrought iron gate
was thrown open to admit him by the well -remembered
portress, a favourite pensioner of his mother’s, her head
sligluly shaking with palsy, her neatly-attired person bent
with age, and her hand trembling partly from infirmity and
partly from joy at the sight of her young master ; — more and
more was the love of his lovely home strengthened as he drove
through the noble park, with its majestic avenues, its clear
waters and magnificent woods, to the venerable mansion which
still retained, in its antique portal, its deep bay windows, its
turrets, towers, and pinnacles, its cloisters and its terraces, so
many vestiges of the incongruous but picturesque architecture
of the age of the Tudors : and by the time that he was ushered
by the delighted old butler into the presence of Lady Lindore
— a dignified and still handsome woman, full of grace and
intellect, who, seated in the stately old library, looked like the
very spirit of the place, — he was so entirely absorbed in early
recollections and domestic affections — - bad so completely for-

BELFORD RACES.

421

gotten his affairs of the heart, the beauty with whom he was
so reasonably in love, and the heiress whom with equal wis-
dom he hated, that, when his mother mentioned the subject,
it came upon him with a startling painfulness like the awaking
from a pleasant dream.

He had, however, sufficient resolution to tell her the truth,
and the whole truth, although the almost smiling surprise
with which she heard the story was not a little mortifying to
his vanity. A young man of one-and-twenty cares little for
a lecture ; but to suppose himself an object of ridicule to a
person of admitted talent is insupportable. Such was unfor-
tunately poor Arthur's case at the present moment.

So much for arriving at what the law calls years of dis-
cretion," observed Lady Lindore, quietly resuming her em-
broidery. From the time you wrote yourself sixteen, until
this very hour, that silly heart of yours has been tossed like a
shuttlecock from one pretty girl to another ; and now you
celebrate your coming of age by the sage avowal of loving a
lady whom you have never spoken to, and hating another
whom you have never seen — VFell I I suppose *you must have
your own way. But, without questioning the charms and
graces of this Katy of yours, just be pleased to tell me why
you have taken such an aversion to my poor little girl. Is it
merely because she has the hundred thousand pounds necessary
to clear off your mortgages ? **

Certainly not."

Or because I unluckily spoke of her talents ? "

Not of her talents, dear mother : no son of yours could
dislike clever women. But you spoke of her as awfully ac-
complished "

I never said a word of her accomplishments."

‘‘ As awfully learned, then ”

" Neither do I remember speaking of that.’*

At all events, as awfully wise. And, dearest mother,
your wise ladies and literary ladies are, not to say any thing
affronting, too wise for me. I like something artless, simple,
natural — a wild, gay, playful creature, full of youthful health
and life, with all her girlish tastes al^ut her ; fond of birds
and flowers — "

And charmed with a country play,” added Lady Lkidore,
completing her son’s sentence. Well ! we must find out
B E 3

4£2

BELFORP RAOB8.

this Katy of yours^ if indeed the fiiney holds* In the mean*
while> 1 have letters to write to your guardians ; and you can
revisit your old liaunts in the grounds till dinner-time, when
yoti wffl see this formidable heiress, and will, I trust, treat
her at least with the politeness of a gentleman, and the atten-
tioii due from the master of the house to an unoffending
guest.''

She is here then ? " inquired Lord Lindore.

She was in this room in search of a book not half an
hour before your arrival.”

Some grave essay or learned treatise, doubtless !” thought
Arthur within himself; and then assuring his mother of his
attention to her commands, he followed her suggestion and
strolled out into the park.

The sun was yet high in the heavens, and the beautiful
scene around him, clothed in the deep verdure of September,
seemed rejoicing in his beams, — the lake, especially, lay
sparkling in the sunshine like a sheet of molten silver ; and
almost unconsciously Lord Lindore directed his steps to a wild
glen near the* water, which had been the favourite haunt of
his boyhood.

It was a hollow dell, surrounded by steep banks, parted
from the lake by a thicCet of fern and holly and old thorn,
much frequented by the deer, and containing in its bosom its
own deep silent pool, dark and bright as a diamond, with a
grotto scooped out of one side of the hill, which in his childish
days had been decayed and deserted, and of which he had
taken possession for his fishing-tackle and other boyish pro-
perty. Lady Lindore had, however, during his absence taken
a fancy to the place ; had extended the stone-work, and
covered it with climbing plants ; had made walks and flower-
beds round the pool, indenting the pond itself with banks,
bays, and headlands ; had erected one or two rustic seats ; —
and it formed now, under the name of The Rockery, a very
pretty lady’s garden — all the prettier that the improvements
had been managed with great taste — that the scene retained
much of its original wildness, its irregularity of form and
variety of shadow — and that even in the creepers which
trailed about the huge masses of stone, indigenous plants were
skilfully mingled with the more gorgeous exotics. On this
lovely autumn day it looked like a piece of fairy-land, and

BBLFOBD RACE9.

4$3

Lord Lindore stood gazing at the scene from under the ivied
arch which led into its recesses with mfich such a feeling of
delight and astonishment as roust have been caused to Aladdin
the morning after the slaves of the lamp had erected his palace
of jewels and gold.

There are no jewels^ after all^ like the living gems called
flowers; and never were flowers so bright, so gorgeous, so
beautiful, as in the Glenham Rockery. Convolvuluses of all
colours, passion-flowers of all shades, clematises of twenty
kinds, rich nasturtiums, sweet musk-roses, pearly-blossomed
myrtles, starry jessamines, and a hundred splendid exotics,
formed a glowing tapestry round the walls, — whose tops were
crowned by velvet snapdragons, and large bushes of the beau-
tiful cistus, called the rock rose ; whilst beds of geraniums, of
lobellias, of calceolaria, and of every sort of gay annual, wei^t
dotting round the pool, and large plants of the blue hydrangea
grew low upon the banks, and the long coral blossoms of the
fuschia hung like weeping-willows into the water. Bees were
busy in the honied tubes of the different coloured sultans, and
dappled butterflies were swinging in the rick flowers of the
China-aster ; gold and silver fishes were playing in the pond,
and the songster of early autumn, the ever-cheerful redbreast,
was twittering from the tree. Bll; bees, and birds, and but-
terflies were not the only tenants of the Glenham Rockery.

A group well suited to the scene, and so deeply occupied as
to be wholly unconscious of observation, was collected near the
entrance of the grotto. Adam Griffith, the well-remembered
old gardener, with his venerable white locks, was standing,
receiving and depositing in a covered basket certain prettily
folded little packets delivered to him by a young lady, who^
half sitting, half kneeling, was writing with a pencil the names
of the flower-seeds (for such it seemed they were) on each
nicely-arranged parcel. A fawn with a silver collar, and a
very large Newfoundland dog, were amicably lying at her
side. The figure was light, and round, and graceful; the
air of the head (for her straw bonnet was also performing the
office of a basket) was exquisitely fine, and the little white
hand that was writing under old Adam's dictation might have
served as a model for a sculptor. If these indications had
’ not been sufficient to convince him that the incognita was not

E £ 4

BELFORD RACES.

424

his nightmare the heiress, the first words she uttered would
have done so.

What name did you say, Adam ?

" Eschscholtzia Californica ! Oh dear me ! I shall never
write that without a blunder. How I do wish they would
call flowers by pretty simple short names now-a-days, as they
used to do ! How much prettier words lilies and roses are
than Es What did you say, Adam ? "

** Eschscholtzia, Miss ; *tis a strange heathenish name, to
be sure — Eschscholtzia Californica,” replied Adam.

“ Each — scholt — zia ! Is that right, Adam ? Look.”

And Adam assumed his spectacles, examined and assented.

“ Eschscholtzia 'Cali ” And the fair seed gatherer was

proceeding gravely with her task, when the little fawn, whose
quick sense of hearing was alarmed at some slight motion of
Arthur's, bounded suddenly up, jerked the basket out of old
Adam’s hand, which fell (luckily tightly closed) into the
water, and was immediately followed by the Newfoundland
dog, who with no greater damage than alarming a whole shoal
of gold and silver fish, who wondered what monster was
coming upon them, and wetting his own shaggy coat, rescued
the basket, and bore it trmmphantly to his mistress.

Fie, Leila ! Good ifelson ! ” exclaimed their fair mis-
tress, turning round to caress her dog — Lord Lindore I ”

Katy ! — Miss Elphinstone ! ”

And enchanted to see her, and bewildered at finding her
there (for Katy it really was — the very Katy of the Belford
Race-ground), Lord Lindore joined the party, shook hands
with old Adam, patted Nelson, made friends with Leila, and
finally found himself tete-a-tete with his fair mistress ; she
sitting on one of the great low stones of the Rockery ; he re-
clining at her side, just like that most graceful of all lovers
Hamlet the Dane at the feet of Ophelia, — but with feelings
differing as completely from those of that most sweet and
melancholy prince, as happiness from misery. Never had
Lord Lindore been so happy before! — never (and it is saying
much, considering the temperament of the young gentleman),
never half so much in love !

It would not be fair, even if it were possible, to follow the
course of a conversation that lasted two hours, which seemed
to them as two minutes.

BELFOBD RACES.

425

They talked of a thousand things : first of flower- seeds, —
and she introduced him to the beautiful winged seeds of the
geranium, with the curious elastic corkscrew curl at the
bottom of its silvery plume ; and to that miniature shuttle-
cock which gives its name to one species of larkspur ; and to
the minute shining sandlike seed of the small lilac campanula,
and the bright jet-like bullets of the fraxinella, and the tiny
lilac balls of the white petunia ; and to the heavy nutmeg-like
seeds of the marvel of Peru : and they both joined in loving
flowers and in hating hard names.

And tlien he tried to find out how she came there : and she
tohl him that she lived close by ; tiiat the dear and kind rela-
tion with whom she resided was married to Mr. John Hale,
his old tenant

John Hale ! ** interrupted Lord Lindore — Old John
Hale, tlie great farmer, great mealman, great maltster, the
richest yeoman in Berkshire ! — the most respectable of his
respectable class ! — Jolm Hale, who has accumulated his
ample fortune with every man's good word, and has lived
eighty years in the world without losing a ffienil or making
an enemy ! — I have thought too little of these things ; but
I have always been proud of being the landlord of John
Hale ! ” *

“Oh, how glad I am to hear you say so!" cried Katy.
“ He and his dear wife — his mistress, as he calls her — are
so good to evt?i ybo(ly and so kind to me ! How glad 1 am to
hear you say that ! "

The tears glistened in her beautiful eyes ; and Lord Lin-
dore, after a little more praise of his venerable tenant, be-
gan talking of her own family, of the races, and of the play.
And Katy laughed at her admiration of the acting, and ac-
knowledged her delight with the most genuine naivete.

“• I did like it," said Katy : and I should like to go to
the play every night ; and I don't wish to become too wise to
be pleased, like mamma and Gertrude. But I should like to
see Shakspeare acted best,” added she, pointing to a book at
her side, which Lord Lindore had not observed before. He
took it up, and it opened of itself at “ Much ado about No-
thing ; " and they naturally fell into talk upon the subject of
the great poet of England, — a subject which can never be
worn out until nature herself is exhausted.

426

BELFOBB RAOEff.

I should think/’ said. Katy, that an actress of real
talent would rather play Beatrice than any other part. Lady
Lindore says that it is too saucy — but I think not ; provided
always that the sauciness be very sweetly spoken. That, how-
ever, is not what I love best in Beatrice : it is her uncalculat-
ing friendship for Hero, her devotion to her injured cousin,
her generous indignation at the base suspicions of Claudio. I
don't know what the critics may say of the matter ; . but in my
mind the fervid ardency of Beatrice, her violent — and the
more violent because powerless — anger, forms the most
natural female portrait in all Shakspeare. Imogen, Juliet,
Desdemona, are all charming in their several ways, but none
of them come up to that scolding.”

“ You think scolding, then, natural to a woman ?**

To be sure, when provoked. What else can she do ?
You would not have her fight, would you ? And yet Beatrice
had as good a mind for a battle as any woman that ever lived.
Hark ! There’s the dressing-bell. You and I must fight out
this battle another time,” said she, with something of the
sweet saucines^' she had described. Good b’ye till dinner-
time, my lord. — Lelia ! Nelson ! ”

And followed by her pets, Katy ran off by an entrance to
the Rockery which he had not seen before. Arthur was about
to trace the windings of the labyrinth and foUow the swift-
footed beauty, when his mother’s voice arrested him. She
was standing under the ivied arch by which he had entered.
Well, Arthur, how do you like the little heiress ? ”
Mother ! ”

** Ay, the little heiress, — the learned, the ugly, and the
wise ! Your Katy ! My Katy !”

And are they really one } And had you the heart to
frighten me in this cruel way for nothing ? "

Nay, Arthur, not for nothing 1 If I had called Katy as
pretty as I thought her, there was great danger that the very
commendation might have provoked; you into setting up some
opposite standard of beauty. I have selected a Hebe, you
would have chosen a Juno. For, after all, your falling in
love with her dear self at Belford Races, which I could not
foresee, was as much the result of the spirit of contradiction
as of anything else. Heaven grant that, now you know she
has a hundred thousand pounds, you may not for that reason

THE ABSENT tfEMBEH. 42?

think fit to change your mind ! For the rest, you now, I sup-
pose, understand that good old John Hale (whose riches are
not"? at all suspected by those foolish persons, Mr. and Mrs.
Elphinstone) proposed the match to me on finding at once
your embarrassments and my fondness for his young relation,
who, since the marriage of my own children, has been as a
daughter in my house ; and who is the kindest and dearest
little girl that ever trod this work-a-day world."

And learned ? ” inquired Lord Lindore, laughing.

That you must inquire into yourself,” replied his mo-
ther. But if it should turn out that Doctor Wilmot, our
good rector, finding her a child of seven years old, with very
quick parts and very little instruction, took her education in
hand, and has enabled her at twenty to gratify her propensity
for the drama, by understanding Schiller and Calderon as well
as you do, and Eschylus and Sophocles much better, why
then you will have to consider how far your philosophy and
her beauty may enable you to support the calamity. For my
part, I hold the opinion that knowledge untainted by pedan-
try or vanity seldom does harm to man or womsTn ; and Katy's
bright eyes may possibly convert you to the same faith. In
the mean while, you have nothing to do but to make love ; a
language, in^'which, from long practice, I presume you to be
sufficiently well versed to play the part of instructor.’'

Oh mother ! have some mercy ! ”

" And as the fair lady dines here, you may begin your les-
sons this very evening. So now, my dear Arthur, go and
dress.”

And with another deprecating " O mother ! ” the happy
son kissed Lady Lindore’s hand, and they parted.

THE ABSENT MEMBER.

Everybody remembers the excellent character of an absent
man by La Bruyere, since so capitally dramatised by Isaac
Bickerstaff; [why does not Mr. Liston revive the piece ? — ^
he would irresistibly amusing in the part]; — everybody
remembers the character, and everybody would have thought

428

THE :iBSENT MEMBER.

the whole account a most amusing and pleasant invention, had
not the incredible facts been verified by the sayings and doings
of a certain Parisian count, whose name has escaped me, a
well-known individual of that day, whose distractions (I use
the word in the French sense, and not in the English) set all
exaggeration at defiance, — who was, in a word, more distrait
than Le Distrait of La Bruyere.

He, that nameless he,” still remains unrivalled ; as an
odd Frenchman, when such a thing turns up, which is seldom,
will generally be found to excel at all points your English
oddity, which is comparatively common. No single specimen
so complete in its kind has appeared in our country ; but the
genus is by no means extinct ; and every now and then, espe-
cially amongst learned men, great mathematicians, and eminent
Grecians, one has the luck to light upon an original, whose
powers of perception and memory are subject to lapses the
most extraordinary, — fits of abstraction, during which every
thing that passes falls unobserved into some pit of forgetfulness,
like the oubliette of an old castle, and is never seen or heard
of again.

My excellent friend, Mr. Coningsby, is just such a man.
The Waters of Oblivion of the Eastern Fairy Tale, or the
more classical Lethe, are but types to shadow forth the extent
and variety of his anti-recollective faculty. Let the fit be
strong upon him, and he shall not recognise his own mansion
or remember his own name. Suppose him at M^hitehall, and
the fire which burnt the two Houses would at such a time
hardly disturb him. You might, at certain moments, commit
murder in his presence with perfect impunity. He would not
know the killer from the killed.

Of course this does not happen every day ; or rather op-
portunities of so striking a character do not often fall in his
way, or doubtless he would not fail to make the most of them.
Of the smaller occasions, which can occur more frequently, he
is pretty sure to take advantage ; and, from the time of his
putting on two different coloured stockings, when getting up in
the morning, to that of his assuming his wife's laced nightcap
on going to bed, his every-day's history is one perpetual series
of blunders and mistakes.

He will salt his tea, for instance, at breakfast-time, and put
sugar on his muffin, and swallow both messes without the

THE ABSENT HEMBER* 4^9

slightest perception of his having at all deviated from the
common mode of applying those relishing condiments. With
respect to the quality of his food, indeed, he is as indifferent
as Dominie Sampson ; and he has been known to fill his glass
with vinegar instead of sherry, and to pour a ladle of turtle-
soup over his turbot instead of lobster- sauce ; and doubtless
would have taken both the eatables and drinkables very quietly,
had not his old butler, on the watch against such occurrences,
whisked both glass and plate away with the celerity of San*

cho’s physician, Don Bless me ! I have forgotten that

name also ! 1 said that this subject was contagious — ; Don

he who officiated in the island of Barataria — Don

No, Doctor Pedro Rezio de Aguero, that is the title to which
the gentleman answers : — Well, the vinegar would have been
drunken, and the turbot and turtle-sauce eaten, had not the
vigilant butler played the part of Don Pedro Rezio, and
whipped off the whole concern, whilst the good man, his
master, sat in dubious meditation, wondering what had become
of his dinner, and not quite certain that he might not have
eaten it, until a plateful of more salubrious and less incon-
gruous viands — harn and chicken, for instance, or roast beef
and French beans — was placed before him, and settled the
question. But for that inestimable butler, a coroner s inquest
would have been held upon him long ago.

After breakfast he w^ould dressy thrice happy if the care of
his valet protected him from shaving with a pruning knife, or
putting on his waistcoat wrong side out : being dressed, he
would prepare for his morning ride, mounting, if his groom
did not happen to be waiting, the very first four-footed
animal that came in his way, sometimes the butcher's horse,
with a tray nicely balanced before — sometimes the postboy's
donkey, with the letter-bags swinging behind — sometimes
his daughter's pony, side-saddle notwithstanding ; and, when
mounted, forth he sallies, rather in the direction which his
steed may happen to prefer than in that which he himself had
intended to follow.

Bold would be the pen that should attempt even a brief
summary of the mistakes committed in one single morning's
ride. If he proceed, as he frequently does, to our good town
of Belford, he goes for wrong things, to the wrong shops ;
miscalls the people whom he accosts (selddm, indeed, shall he

480

THE absent MiilBEIt.

hit on the proper name^ title, or vocation of any one whom he
chances to address) ; asks an old bachelor after his wife^ and
an old maid after her children ; and finally sums up a morn-
ing of blunders by going to the inn where he had not left his
horse, and quietly stepping into some gig or phaeton prepared
for another person. In a new neighbourhood this appro-
priation of other people's property might bring our hero into
an awkward dilemma; but the man and his ways are well
known in our parts ; and, when the unlucky owner of the
abstracted equipage arrives in a fury, and demands of the
astounded ostler what has become of his carriage, one simple
exclamation, “ Mr. Coningsby, sir ! ” is at once felt by the
aggrieved proprietor to be explanation enough.

Should morning calls be the order of the day, he contrives
to make a pretty comfortable confusion in that simple civility.
First of all, he can hardly gallop along the king’s highway
without getting into a demele with the turnpike- keepers ;
sometimes riding quietly through a gate without paying the
slightest attention to their demand for toll ; at others, tossing
them, without dreaming of stopping to receive the change, a
shilling or a sovereign, as the case may be ; for, although great
on the currency question — (have I not said that the gentle-
man is a county member?) — he is practically most happily
ignorant of the current coin of the realm, and would hardly
know gold from silver, if asked to distinguish between them.
This event, is a perfect Godsend to the gatekeeper ; who,
confiding in the absolute deafness produced by his abstraction,
calls after him with a complete assurance that he may be
honest with impunity, and that, bawl as he may, there is no
more chance of his arresting his passenger, than the turnpike-
man of Ware had of stopping Johnny Gilpin. Accordingly,
after undergoing the ceremony of offering change, he pockets
the whole coin with a safe conscience. Beggars (and he is
very charitable) find their account also in this ignorance : he
flings about crowns for penny-pieces, and half-sovereigns for
slxpeuces, relieving the same set a dozen times over, and get-
ting quit of a pocketful of money — (for though he have a
purse, he seldom remembers to make use of it — luckily sel-
dom — for if he do fill that gentlemanly net-work, he is sure
to lose it, cash, bank-notes, and all) — in the course of a
morning’s ride.

THE ABSENT MEMBER.

431

Arrived at the place of his destination, the house at which
he is to call, a new scene of confusion is pretty sure to arise.
In the first place, it rarely happens that he does arrive at the
veritable mansion to which his visit is intended. He is far
more likely to ride to the wrong place, inquire of the be-
wildered footman for some name not his master’s, and be
finally ushered into a room full of strangers, persons whom
he neither visits nor knows, who stare and wonder what
brought him, whilst he, not very sure whether he ought to
remember them, whether they 1^ his acquaintances or not,
stammers out an apology and marches off again. (N. B. He
once did this whilst canvassing for the county to a rival
candidate, and finding only the lady of the house, entreated
her, in the most insinuating manner, to exert her influence
with her husband for his vote and interest. This passed for
a deep stroke of finesse amongst those who did not know him
— they who did, laughed and exclaimed, Mr. Coningsby ! ”)
Or he shall commit the reverse mistake, and riding to the
right house, shall ask for the wrong people, or, finding the
family out, he shall have forgotten his own »name — I mean
his name-tickets — and shall leave one from his wife’s or
daughter’s card-case, taken up by that sort of accident which
is to him second nature ; — or he shall unite all these blunders,
and leave at a house where he himself does not visit a card
left at his own mansion by a ’third person, who is also un-
acquainted with the family to which so unconsciously that
outward sign and token of acquaintanceship had travelled.

Imagine the mistakes and the confusions occasioned by such
doings in a changeable neighbourhood, much broken into par-
ties by politics and election contests ! Sometimes it does
good, — as between two old country squires, who, having been
friends all their lives, had quarrelled about the speed of a
greyhound and the decision of a course, and had mutually
vowed never to approach each other’s door. The sight of his
antagonist’s card (left in one of Mr. Coningsby’s absent fits) so
mollified the more testy elder of the two, that he forthwith
returned the visit, and the opposite party being luckily not at
home, a card was left there dso ; and either individual think-
ing the concession first made to himself, was emulous in
stepping forward with the most cordial hand-shaking when
they met casually at dinner at a third place.

432 THE ABSENT HEJIBER.

But Mr. Coningsby’s visiting blunders were not always so
fortunate ; where they healed one breach, they made twenty,
and once had very nearly occasioned a duel betwixt two
youngsters, lords of neighbouring manors, between whose
gamekeepers there was an outstanding feud. The card left
was taken for a cartel — a note of defiance ; and, but for the
interference of constables, and mayors, and magistrates, and
aunts, and sisters, and mammas, and peace-preservers of all
ages and sexes, some very hot blood would inevitably have
been spilt. As it was, the affair terminated in a grand effu-
sion of ink ; the correspondence between the seconds, a deli-
cious specimen of polite and punctilious quarrelling, having
been published for the edification of the world, and filling
three columns of the county newspapers. It came to no con-
clusion ; for, although the one party conceded that a card bad
been left, and the other that the person to whom the name
belonged did not leave it, yet how the thing did arrive on that
hall table remained a mystery. The servant who* opened the
door happened to be a stranger, and somehow or other nobody
ever thought of«Mr. Coningsby ; — nay, he himself, although
taking a great interest in the dispute, and wondering over the
puzzle like the rest of the neighbourhood, never once recol-
lected his own goings on that eventful morning, nor dreamt
that it could be through his infirmity that Sir James Mor-
daunt’s card was left at Mr. Chandler’s house; — to so incre-
dible a point was his forgetfulness carried.

If in so simple a matter as morning visiting he contrived to
produce such confusion, think how his genius must have
expanded when so dangerous a weapon as ’a pen got into his
hands ! I question if he ever wrote a letter in his life with-
out some blunder in the date, the address, the signature, or
the subject. He would indite an epistle to one person, direct
it to another, and send it to a third, who could not conceive
from whom it came, because he had forgotten to put his name
at the bottom. But of the numerous perplexities to which he
was in the habit of giving rise, franks were by very far the
most frequent cause. Ticklish things are they even to the
punctual and the careful ; and to Mr. Coningsby the giving
one quite perfectly right seemed an impossibility. There was
the date to consider, the month, the day of the month, the
year — I have known him write the wrong century ; — then

THE ABSENT MEMBER.

433

came the name, the place, the street, and number, if in Lon-
don— if in the country, the town and county ; — then, lastly,
his own name, which, for so simple an operation as it seems,
he would contrive generally to omit, and sometimes to boggle
with, now writing only his patronymic as if he were a peer,
now only his Christian name as if a prince, and now an invo-
lution of initials that defied even the accurate eye of the clerks
of the Post Office. Very, very few can have been the franks
of his that escaped paying.

Of course his friends and acquaintance were forewarned,
and escaped the scrape (for it is one) of making their corre-
spondents pay triple postage. Bountiful as he was in his
offers of service in this way, (and, keeping no account of the
numbers, he would just as readily give fifty as one,) none in-
curred the penalty save strangers and the unwary. I, for
my own part, never received but one letter directed by him
in my life, and in the address of that, the name — my name,
the name of the person to whom the letter was written — was
wanting. Three Mile Cross ” held the place usually occu-
pied by Miss Mitford.” *

Three Mile Cross,

Reading,

Berks,'*

ran the direction. But as I happened to receive about twenty
times as many letteis, and especially franked letters, as all the
good people of the Cross" put together, the packet was
sent first to me, by way of experiment ; and, as I recognised
the seal of a dear friend and old correspondent, I felt no
scruple in appropriating for once, like a Scottish laird, the
style and title of the place where I reside. And I and the
postmaster were right: the epistle was, as it happened, in-
tended for me.

Notes would, in his hands, have been sdll more dangerous
than letters ; but from this peril he was generally saved by the
caution of the two friends most anxious for his credit, — his
wife and the old butler, who commonly contrived, the one to
write the answers to all invitations or general billets that arrived
at the house, the other to watch that none from him should pass
without due scrutiny. Once, however, he escaped their sur-
veillance ; and the consequence was an adventure which, though
very trifling, proved, in the first instance, so uncomfortable as

p F

434

THE ABSENT MEMBER.

to cause both his keepers to exert double vigilance for the future.
Thus the story ran : —

A respectable, but not wealthy, clergyman had been ap-
pointed to a living about ten miles off — had married, and
brought home his bride ; and Mr. Coningsby, who, as county
member, called upon everybody within a still wider circuit,
paid a visit in due form, accompanied by, or rather accompany-
ing, his lady ; which call having been duly returned (neither
party being at home), was followed at the proper interval by
an invitation for Mr. and Mrs. Ellis to dine at Coningsby
House. The invitation was accepted ; but, when the day
arrived, the dangerous illness of a near relation prevented the
young couple from keeping their engagement ; and, sonie time
after, the fair bride began to think it necessary to return the
civilities of her neighbours, by giving her first dinner-party.
Notes of invitation were despatched accordingly to four families
of consequence, amongst them Mr. Coningsby’s ; but it was the
busy Christmas- time, when, between family parties, and
London visitop, and children’s balls, everybody’s evenings
were bespoken for weeks beforehand ; and from three of her
friends, accordingly, she received answers declining her invi-
tation, and pleading pre-engagements. From the Conir^gsbys,
only, no note arrived. But accidentally Mr. Ellis heard that
they were to go at Christmas on a distant visit, and, taking for
granted that the invitation had not reachetl the worthy member
or his amiable lady, Mrs. Ellis, instead of attempting to collect
other friends, made up her mind to postpone her party to a
more convenient season.

The day on which the dinner was to have been given proved
so unfavourable that our young couple saw good cause to con-
gratulate themselves on their resolution. The little hamlet of
East Longford, amongst the prettiest of our North-of- Hamp-
shire villages, so beautiful in the summer, from the irregularities
of the ground, the deep woody lanes hollowed like water-
courses, tlie wild commons which must be passed to reach it,
and the profound seclusion of the one straggling street of
cottages and cottage- like houses, with the vicarag^, placed like
a bird’s-nest on the siile of a steep hill, clothed to the very top
with beech- woods ; this pretty hamlet, so charming in its
summer verdure, its deep retirement, and its touch of wildness
in the midst of civilisation, was from those very circumstances

TUE ABSENT MEMBER.

435

no tempting spot in mid-winter: vast tracts across the commons
were then nearly impassable ; the lanes were sloughs ; and the
village itself, rendered insulated and inaccessible by the badness
of the roads, conveyed no other feeling than that of dreariness
and loneliness. Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, who, although not insen-
sible of the inconveniences of their abode, had made up their
minds to bear the evil and enjoy the good of their situation,
could not yet help congratulating themselves, as they sat in their
snug dining parlour, after a five o'clock dinner, on the post-
ponement of their party. “ The snow is above a foot deep,
and the bridge broken, so that neither servants nor horses could
have got to the Parrot ; and where could we have housed
them ?" said the gentleman. “ And the drawing-room smokes
so, in this heavy atmosphere, that we cannot light a fire there,”
responded the lady. Never, to he sure, was anything so
fortunate

And, just as the word was spoken, a carriage and four drove
up to the door, and exactly at half-past six (the hour named
in the invitation) Mr. and Mrs. Coningsby were ushered into
the room. •

Imagine the feelings of four persons, who had never met
before, in such a situation — especially of the two ladies.
Mrs. Ellis, dimner over, with the consciousness of the half
bottle of port and the quarter of sherry, the apples, the nuts,
the single pair of mould candles, her drawing-room fire that
could not be lighted, her dinner to provide as well as to cook,
and her own dark merino and black silk apron ! Poor Mrs.
Coningsby, on the other hand, seeing at a glance how the case
stood, feeling for the trouble that they were giving, and
sinking under a conciousness far worse to bear than Mrs. Ellis’s
— the consciousness of being overdressed, — how heartily did
she wish herself at home again ! or, if that were too much to
desire, what would she have given to have replaced her claret-
coloured satin gown, her hat with its white plumes, her pearls
and her rubies, back again in their wardrobes and cases.

It was a trial of no ordinary nature to the good sense, good
breeding, and good humour of both parties ; and each stood it
well. There happened to be a cold round of beef in the
house, some undressed game, and plenty of milk and eggs ; the
next farmer had killed a pig ; and, with pork chopsj cold
beef, a pheasant, and apple fritters, all very nicely prepared,

F p 2

436 THE ABSENT I^EMBER.

more fl^tidious persons than Mr. and Mrs. Coningsby might
have made a good dinner. The host brought out his best
claret ; the pretty hostess regained her smiles, and forgot her
black apron and her dark merino ; and, what was a far more
difficult achievement, the fair visitor forgot her plumes and
her satin. The evening, which began so inauspiciously, ended
pleasantly and sociably ; and, when the note (taken, as was
guessed, by our hero from the letter-boy, with the intention of
sevding it by a groom) was found quietly ensconced in his
waistcoat pqcket, Mrs. Coningsby could hardly regret the ter-
mination of her present adventure, although fully resolved
never again to incur a similar danger.

Of his mishaps when attending his duty in parliament, and
left in some measure to his own guidance, (for, having no house
in town, his family only go for about three months in the season,)
there is no end. Some are serious, and some very much the
reverse. Take a specimen of his London scrapes.

Our excellent friend wears a wig, made to imitate a nafhral
head of hair, which it is to be presumed that at the best of
times it does not very closely resemble, and which, after a
week of Mr. Coningsby's wearing, put on with the character-
istic negligence of his habits, sometimes on one side, some-
times on the other, — always awry, and frequently hindside
before, — assumes such a demeanour as never was equalled by
Christian peruke at any time or in any country.

One day last winter, being in London without a servant, he
by some extraordinary chance happened to look in the glass
when he was dressing, and became aware of the evil state of
his caxon ; — a piece of information for which he had generally
been indebted to one of his two guardians, Mrs. Coningsby or
the old butler; — and, recollecting that he was engaged to a
great dinner-party the ensuing evening, stepped into the first
hairdresser’s shop that he passed to bespeak himself a wig ;
where, being a man of exceedingly pleasant and jocular man-
ners, (your oddities, allowing for the peculiar oddness, are
commonly agreeable persons,) he passed himself off for a
bachelor to the artificer of hair, and declared that his reason
for desiring a wig of peculiar beauty and becomingness was
that he was engaged to a great party the next day, at which he
expected to meet the lady of his heart, and that his fate and
fortune depended on the set of his curls. This he impressed

TUE ABSENT MEMBER.

m

very strongly on the mind of the perruquier, who, an enthusiast'
in his art, as a great artist should be, saw nothing extraordinary
in the fact of a man's happiness hanging on the cut of his wig,
and gravely promised that no exertion should be wanting on
his part to contribute to the felicity of his customer, and that
the article in question, as perfect as hands could make it,
should be at his lodgings the next evening at seven.

Punctual to the hour arrived the maker of perukes ; and,
finding Mr. Coningsby not yet returned to dress, went to
attend another appointment, promising to come back in half an
hour. In half an hour accordingly the man of cilrls reappeared
— just in time to see a cabriolet living rapidly from the door,
at which a maid-servant stood tittering.

Where is Mr. Coningsby inquired the perruquier.

Just gone out to dinner,” replied the girl ; and a queer
figure he is, sure enough. He looks, for all the world, like an
owl in an ivy-bush ! ”

To be sure, he has not got his new wig on — my wig !”
returned the alarmed artist He never can be such a fool as
that!”

He^s fool enough for anything in the way of forgetting or
not attending, although a main clever man in other respects,'*
responded our friend Sally ; and he has got a mop of hair
on his head, whoever made it, that would have served for half
a dozen wigs.”

^'The article was sent home untrimmed, just is it was
woven,” replied the unfortunate fabricator, in increasing con-
sternation ; and a capital article it is. I came by his qwn
direction to cut and curl it, according to the shape of his face ;
the gentleman being particular about the set of it, because he’s
going a-courting.”

Going a-courting !” exclaimed Sally, amazed in her turn ;

the Lord ha’ mercy upon the poor wretch ! If he has not
clean forgot that he’s married, and is going to commit big —
big — bigotry, or bigoly — I don't know what you call it —
to have two wives at once I and then he’ll be hanged. Going
a-courting ! Wliatll Madam say ! He’ll come to be hanged,
sure enough ! ”

Married already 1” quoth the perruquier, with a knowing
whistle, and a countenance that spoke Benedick, the married
man,” in every feature. Whew I One wife at a time's

438

THE ABSENT MEMBER.

enough for most people. But he’ll not be hanged. The fact
of his wearing my wig wUh the hair six inches long will save
him. He must 1^ non compos. And you that stand tittering
there can be little better to let him go out in such a plight.
Why didn’t you stop him ? ”

Stop him ! ” ejaculated the damsel, — ‘‘ stop Mr.Coningsby I
I should like to know how ! ”

Why, by telling him what he was about, to be sure, and
getting him to look in the glass. Nobody with eyes in his
head could have gone out such a figure ! ”

Talk to him !” quoth Sally ; ‘‘ but how was I to get him
to listen ? And, as to looking in a glass, I question if ever
he did such a thing in his life. You do’nt know our Mr.
Coningshy, that’s clear enough!”

I only wish he had never come in my way, that I never
had had the ill luck to have known him !” rejoined the dis-
comfited artist. “ If he should happen to mention my name
as his wig-maker whilst he has that peruke on his head, 1 am
ruined ! — my reputation is gone for ever !”

No fear of that !” replied Sally, in a comforting tone,
struck with compassion at the genuine alarm of the unlucky
man of wigs. “ There 's not the slightest danger of his men-
tioning your name, because you may be certain sure that he
does not remember it. Lord love you ! he very often forgets
his own. Don’t you be frightened about that !” repeated the
damsel soothingly, as she shut the door, whilst the discomfited
perruquier returned to his shop, and Mr. Coningsby, never
guessing how entirely in outward semblance he resembled the
wild man of the woods, proceeded to his dinner- party, where
his coefiure was, as the hairdresser had predicted, the theme
of universal astonishment and admiration.

This, however, was one of the least of his scrapes. He has
gone to court without a sword ; |has worn coloured clothes to a
funeral, and black at a wedding. There is scarcely any con-
ventional law of society which, in some way or other, he hath
not contrived to break ; and, in two or three slight instances,
he has approached more nearly than beseems a magistrate and
a senator to a d^mele with the laws of the land. He hath
quietly knocked down a great fellow, for instance, whom he
caught beating a little one, and hath once or twice been so
blind, or so absent, as to suffer a petty culprit to run away.

THE ABSENT MEMBER. 439

when brought up for examination, in virtue of his own
warrant. But it is remarkable that he never, in his most
oblivious moods, is betrayed into an unkind word or an un-
generous action. There is a moral instinct about him which
preserves him, in the midst of his oddities, pure and unsullied
in thought and deed. With all his distractions he never
lost a friend or made an enemy ; his opponents at an election
are posed when they have to get up a handbill against him ;
and for that great test of amiableness, the love of his family,
his household, his relations, servants, and neighbours, I would
match my worthy friend, George Coningsby, against any man
in the county.

THE ENB.

London :

Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New>Street*$quarc.

BENTLEY’S

STANDARD NOVELS
AND ROMANCES.

FROM THE ‘‘MORNING HERALD* OP OCT. 6, 1849,

English prose fiction has made an advance within the last thirty
years unparalleled in the history of literature. With the excep*
tion, perhaps, of the rapid development of the national literature
of Germany, there is no instance of a similar kind which will bear
comparison with the maturity of power, the copiousness, variety,
and skill displayed by oi^T modem novelists, who, in a quarter of.
a century, may be said to have created and brought to perfection
a new school of art in the portraiture of life and manners. Our
language teems with writers of fiction ; but the discovery of what
may be truly called the art of fiction, of the application of extent
sive knowledge, historical research, and the philosophy of humalSi
character, to works of invention, belongs to the present
Illustrious names stand out in the annals of the past; but
were exceptional instances, and cannot be referred to as hating
established a class, so to speak, of national fiction. l>e Bdie^
Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, Goldsmith, are as essentially
dividual as in the magnitude and depth of their genius
unapproachable. The crowd of novel-writers who flourish^^
the last century have 8lrea^'*vaaishM,^ii^

2

Charlotte Smitha^ the Lees, Eoches, and the rest, are as little
known to contemporary readers as the Aphra Behns and the Man-
leys, ami the writers of the fugitive Satires and scandalous me-
moirs of a still earlier day. They laboured, industriously enough,
to enrich our literature in this department, but they left no per-
manent results behind. Sentimental affectation, unreal passion,
and an artificial nature, pervaded their narratives, and rendered
their pictures of society worthless. Our modem writers have
passed out of this mirage into the open daylight of reality, and,
with a wise comprehension of the practical capabilities of fiction
as popular expositor of human life, have given us a series of novels
and romances, which, it is not very hazardous to predict, will
communicate as much delight and instruction to future genera-
tions as they have diffused amongst ourselves.

It was a happy idea of Mr. Bentley, whose enterprise as a pub-
lisher has placed the reading world under so many obligations in
the higher and graver departments of history and the belles let-
tres, to combine in a unique and uniform collection of cheap and
elegant volumes the principal works of fiction which have appeared
in England during the last quarter of a century. This collection,
already extending to a hundred and sixteen volumes, is unrivalled
for diversity of subject and treatment, and may be justly described
as the most attractive family library of entertainment and of
social precept teaching by example that has ever issued from the
jnress. Embracing the most popular productions of Bulwer
Lytton, Marryat, James, CJooper, Mrs. Gore, Mrs. Trollope, Miss
Mitfbrd, Grattan, Theodore Hook, Miss Austin, Morier, Galt,
aii^ numerous other distinguished authors, we traverse in these
oompact books every known form of fiction, every section of
•odety, and every phase of humanity. The collection ranges over
whole field of fiction, and includes tales of chivalry, historical
ijUdoanoes, tales of fashionable life, domestic novels, stories of
and naval life, tales of costume and manners, and
> fietiosa whk^ carry us into the ancient world and

remote countries, penetrating the life and usages of early Egypt,
Greece, and Italy, the villages of Indian tribes, and the palaces
and deserts of the East. Nor is it merely on the ground of
variety and ability alone that this remarkable series confers such
honour upon the literature of the country ; it is stamped with a
distinction of a nobler kind, of which we have good reason to be
still more proud. In no other language does there exist a body of
fiction so unexceptionable in point of taste, and impressed
hroughout with so pure a spirit of morality. • It is in this respect
that our English ** Standard Novels” assert a lofty superiority over
the more dazzling but corrupting fictions of European growth.

The charm of such a collection can hardly be sufficiently appre-
ciated on the shelves of our libraries at home here in England.
Imagine what a boon these 116 volumes would be to a settler on
the arid plains of Southern Australia! Imagine what hours of
dreary solitude they would fill with visions of ^nman faces, and
the fiattering action of human passion, in the distant hives of life,
whose faintest echoes are full of interest to the exile I To the
colonics, where books are scarce and dear, and where every
printed scrap is seized upon with avidity, and passed from hand
to hand as a source of inestimable enjoyment, these cheap
volumes, into which such a mass of agreeable and suggestive
reading is compressed, "will furnish an inexhaustible spring of
information and amusement. The lowness of their price will also
introduce them into hamlets and cottages from which they have
been hitherto excluded by the costliness of the original editions ;
while the travelling population, by steam-boat or railroad, for
whom have been latterly provided sundry trumpery libraries, thei
text of which, we suspect, cannot be very confidently relied upoi^;
and which are got up with a due regard to penury of print and
paper, may rejoice in having a; series of books from wbicU they
can cull, at a trifling cost, 'abundant entertainment en with

the satisfaction of feeling that the volumes are sufficiently
in all details of type, paper, and binding, to be placed in

4

or on their dranrii^room tabl^ at the end of their

who is attract by the cheapness of these books,
eqjoy their contents with a keener relish if he had
ilieir statistics. He may not, perhaps, suspect, while
MBtealng oter ^ pleasant leayes which he has just purchased
that an enormous capital has been expended
Hiiaw ptodnctioii. We will supply him with the items, and
Hifia hi^ jto wonder rejoice over the enterprise which has
ytnOliffitatoits at so sinall a price within his reach^

V

•'Ite'^inwigitt ot ihe ttendard novelt may be estimated

fb ... X53,000

iUnabcationa at . ^635.000

[ISiiltlig' ft tttal outlay of . . . £88,000